


opening doors

by impossibletruths



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Theatre, Background Kady/Penny/Julia, Broadway, Happy Ending, M/M, Overzealous Use Of Symbolism, Pining, Playwriting, Slow Burn, Well Slow-Ish Burn Anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-05-20 19:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 52,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19383610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: When up-and-coming playwright Quentin Coldwater lands the Brakebills Theatre Co. spring residency program, he's pretty sure life's as good as it's ever gonna get. After all, Brakebills introduced him to the magic of the theatre in the first place, and now he's got the chance to work with them––and their very handsome, very helpful associate director Eliot Waugh.But as Quentin's about to find out, it's one thing to open a door and another thing entirely to follow where it leads.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a what-if Smash AU and ended up as something completely different. Fair warning: all my theater knowledge is from stuff I worked on years ago, so mistakes are my own. Also, Plum Purchas from the book trilogy features, but you don't need to know anything about her or the books to get what's going on here.

 

_Theater is, at its roots, some very brave people mutually consenting to a make-believe world, with nothing but language to rest on._

– Sarah Ruhl

 

* * *

 

It began on a grey afternoon in November, a windy and cold day that heralded a long line of windy and cold days to come. Trash skittered across the sidewalk in short-lived whirlwinds, eddying up against towering monoliths of concrete and brick before dying out again even in the nicest, best-kept parts of Midtown. People hurried by, swept along like the refuse and the wet leaves, noses buried in coat collars and scarves, and Quentin Coldwater was late for a meeting.

The lateness was not entirely his fault. He had caught the crosstown train on time, and even thought he might be early, but there had been trouble on the tracks––par for the course, really, and even to be expected given his luck––and when finally he emerged from the damp, dim tunnels of the New York metro system it had been to a dribbling, freezing precipitation that couldn’t quite commit to rain and wasn’t content to merely mist. It had promptly settled in his hair, and his coat and scarf and bag as well, a glimmering shell of water that reminded him what a miserable affair this all was, and how much happier he might be once it was over.

Though, happier was something of a relative term where Quentin Coldwater was concerned.

The building number was 763, which he discovered to be a glass door set in a frame that might have once been gold but was now more of a faded copper. It was sandwiched between a locksmith and a narrow, green-trimmed Greek restaurant, the number etched above the lintel. He double his phone for both the directions and the time, which now read ten minutes past the hour. Shit.

Struggling inside, he found himself at the mouth of a long, dim hallway tiled in grubby linoleum; the wallpaper was out of a different century altogether, printed with a pattern that made him think of dark forests, all overbearing branches that served only to make the narrow hallway feel even tighter. He pressed forward towards the light at the end of the hall––which was a somewhat morbid thought for that November afternoon––and stumbled suddenly into a wide, empty lobby.

He blinked in the glare of the stark lighting and the sudden warmth, which set the near-frozen water embedded in every inch of his clothes to dripping unpleasantly on the shining floor, puddling beneath his shoes and then seeping into the leather. He quickly stepped aside, water spreading behind him, and looked around hopelessly. The dimensions of the room were oddly large given how narrow the building had appeared from the outside, and he had the wild notion that it couldn’t possibly fit in here, and in the moment it took to reorient himself he almost missed the stranger.

The room, it turned out, was not quite empty after all.

He was tall, and narrow, and leaned easily against the counter of a reception desk, which was otherwise abandoned. He held a clipboard loosely in one hand and a pen in the other, held up against his lips not unlike one might hold a cigarette. He wore a vest and a tie and an expression of mild disdain, as though he had already come to a decision about the whole affair and found it taxing, and pointless, and was seeing it through only out of a distant sense of social obligation.

He was also, with his curling dark hair and dark eyes––and, yes, the disdain too––incredibly handsome. This seemed to be in line with the sort of luck Quentin was having today, which one might generally term unfortunate. Quentin preferred _bad_. The man raised an eyebrow at him. Quentin hastily looked away.

“I’m looking for, uh,” he said intelligently, fumbling for his phone again. It was still in his hand, screen speckled with water. He smeared it unhelpfully on the cuff of his coat and pulled up the email. “Henry Fogg?”

The man looked him up and down––quite clearly considering him and drawing his conclusions, all tucked away under that same expression of mild disdain––and checked his clipboard. “Quentin Coldwater?”

“Hi, um,” Quentin said, one hand closing and opening around the strap of his bag. (It was wet too, and he had nothing dry to wipe his palm on.) “Yes?”

“I’m Eliot.” He held out a hand, which Quentin shook on autopilot, and the man––Eliot––only briefly raised an eyebrow at the dampness. He patted himself dry on the front of his vest. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, I know, sorry, there was a, um––” But Eliot had already begun to move, all rolling grace as turned back towards the elevator, so Quentin closed his mouth and stuffed his phone in his pocket and followed after like a dutiful hound, and only once wondered if he ought to complete the image by shaking the excess water out of his hair and coat.

He didn’t, but it was a near thing.

They passed the elevator ride up in a nearly unbearable silence, Eliot openly staring at him, Quentin trying to decide if the damp of his palms was sweat or rain.

Sweat, most likely. He blotted them unsubtly against his pants. As they were also damp, it didn’t do much good.

He checked his reflection in the shiny elevator door and winced. Bedraggled would have described him rather well at that particular moment in time. Miserable would not have been far off the mark either. _Wet rat_ seemed to encompass it all with a brisk efficiency that made his mouth twist downwards.

So much for first impressions.

The elevator arrived with a chipper, optimistic _ding_ completely at odds with Quentin’s appraisal of the situation, and the doors slid open on the main offices of Brakebills Theatre Company. Eliot sailed unfettered past a harried-looking receptionist, a jumbled collection of overfull cubicles whose occupants barely noticed as they passed, and a short hallway of glass-windowed offices before depositing him at a door that had _Artistic Director_ etched onto the cloudy glass.

Eliot rapped twice. From inside a deep, flat voice called out, “Enter.”

“Break a leg,” said Eliot, and then he ushered Quentin into the office, pulling the door shut behind him and leaving Quentin to his own devices.

A brief spike of panic curled through him, which he staved off as best he could with a careful observation of the room: dark green walls with wooden accents utterly at odds with the white-and-grey cubicles outside, a heavy-looking desk of dark wood, a liquor cabinet in one corner holding a myriad of half-empty––or half-full, depending on how you cared to look at it––bottles, a bookcase overflowing with books and plays, including an entire shelf dedicated to pasts productions by the Brakebills company itself whose spines Quentin read and recognized with a shivery thrill.

And behind the desk, fingers laced neatly in front of him and eyes boring into Quentin, sat Henry Fogg himself: legendary artistic director; man of mystery, terror, and power.

And drink, apparently. A health serving of something amber sat in a glass at his elbow. Quentin swallowed once, tightly, and held out a hand.

“Hi,” he said. “Quentin Coldwater. Sorry I’m late.”

“Are you?” asked Fogg without inflection. He ignored Quentin’s hand, and Quentin retracted it with a wince.

“Um,” he said. Fogg nodded once at the chair across the desk, a clear invitation. Quentin sat.

“My associates tell me you’re quite the promising playwright, Mr. Coldwater.”

“Um, yes. Sir.” He tacked it on thoughtlessly, and then immediately wished he hadn’t. Fogg’s expression barely twitched.

“Tell me: why the hell should we consider you for the residency position?”

Quentin blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”

“What is it about––” He skimmed over his notes, frowned, and continued, “––your body of work that makes any of it worth producing?”

Quentin opened his mouth, and closed it sharply, and opened it again. “It’s–– I’m not sure what you–– My agent should have, um, spoken with you?”

“He did, yes.”

“And I–– Sorry, I thought this was a, um, meeting of introduction?” A courtesy meeting, his agent had called it. The whole thing practically in the bag. He just needed to shake the right hands, kiss the right ass, drop off the newest script, and Bob’s your uncle.

Though, judging by Henry Fogg’s face Bob was definitely not his uncle and “in the bag” had been a gross overstatement. If he’d know it was going to be an interrogation he’d have prepared better. Or, like, at all. 

Shit.

Fogg was still staring at him, inscrutable. “It is,” he agreed.

“And you were interested in having me on for the season?” Quentin pushed. Clarified. One or the other. Maybe both. Henry Fogg’s head tilted a little, like he was considering a problem.

“We are.”

“So why––”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Are you interested in working with us for the season?”

He was having an out of body experience, he decided. Or a bad dream. It was like one of those stress nightmares; he’d look down and realize he wasn’t wearing any pants and the panic would wake him up, and realize he hadn’t even had this meeting at all, and that would be that.

“Yes,” he answered, a little snappish. “Of course. That’s why I’m here.”

“Good. So–– Why should we accept you?”

Quentin stared at him, mouth opening slightly. He swallowed down his first response––a hearty _what the fuck is your problem_ ––and closed his lips around a _you tell me_.

The third option ended up being not much better. 

“You need it.”

Fogg leaned forward, just a little. “Do we?”

Quentin grit his teeth. In for a penny, and all that. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He had the sense he was being tested, only no one had bothered to tell him what the material was, or how he was being graded. He considered Fogg for a moment, who considered him right back. His face betrayed not a hint of emotion.

Well. Fine. Quentin could take a test as well as anybody.

“Your workshop model is outdated. You haven’t produced anything new since the company of _Third Year_ walked out of your residency program two years ago. Without something to contribute you’ll be run out by younger and bolder production houses.”

This was a passable answer, apparently, because a flicker of interest passed across Fogg’s face. He looked, for the first time since Quentin had stumbled in, as though he might be willing to engage in a conversation. One eyebrow twitched.

“You seem to have a dismal view of our chances. Are you certain you wish to work with us?”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. He’d have just as happily tried Roundabout, or Cherry Lane. Hell, he could have given up the scene entirely and started shipping bastardized television pilots out to LA. His agent had suggested it often enough. But, still. He wanted to do theatre. He wanted to tell these stories live up on stage.

And this was Brakebills.

Henry Fogg’s expression was a clear invitation to continue. Quentin swallowed.

“I saw Christopher Plover’s _Fillory_ here when I was a kid,” he explained. “I didn’t know anything about theatre, but my dad brought me all the way into the city to see it, and it–– It changed my life.” Had saved his life, really, if one wanted to get technical about it, but there was no need to share that. “It… It opened up a whole new world to me, you know? It put me on the path that brought me here. So–– Yeah. I want to work with you.”

“And you, in turn, are what we need here?”

Quentin snorted. “I have no idea,” he admitted. “But I want to be here, so it seemed worth a shot.”

Fogg stared at him another long, uncomfortable minute, then leaned back in his seat. Quentin wondered, distantly, if he’d said too much, but if he had there was nothing to be done about it now. He’d probably freak out about this in, like, half an hour. At least he’d be out of the building by then, instead of sitting in Henry Fogg’s office.

Fogg steepled his fingers with a small, considerate frown. “Thank you for coming to meet with me, Mr. Coldwater.”

Quentin wet his lips carefully. “You’re welcome.”

“I understand you have new material for us today?”

“Yes?”

“Good,” said Fogg, setting his hands flat on the desk with a sharp clap. “I’ll read it and get back to you.”

Quentin blinked. The tone in the room had changed, just like that. Fogg offered him the edge of a smile that was almost warm.

“Right,” he said. “Um. Thanks. I’ll just––”

“Eliot will take it.”

“Sure, yeah. Right. Okay. Thank you for your time, Mr, uh. Henry. Thanks, Henry.”

Henry Fogg stared at him a moment, eyes flat and unsettling, smiling the edge of that strange smile, then he nodded once and stood. Quentin stood with him, nearly knocking his chair over in the process. Fogg held a hand out, and Quentin shook it numbly.

“Have a good day, Mr. Coldwater.”

Then it was back out into the office, and down the hall, and into the elevator with disdainful, handsome Eliot. Muzak played quietly, a jazz rendition of a Christmas song that would be out of season for another few weeks at least. Quentin closed his eyes and tried to make sense of anything that had just happened.

He mostly failed.

“He’s like that with everyone,” Eliot said, brisk and almost comforting. Quentin opened his eyes.

Eliot was staring at him. There was something oddly piercing about his gaze, like he was peeling back the layers of Quentin’s mind one by one, which would explain how he knew what Quentin was thinking.

Or, more likely, he’d been in this position before.

“Right,” he said, trying to come up with something to say that wasn’t just a long, convoluted curse _._

Eliot’s lips quirked, drawing Quentin’s attention in a way that was enormously distracting. “Don’t take it too personally.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Quentin muttered, not particularly kindly, and Eliot’s mouth went from quirked to something that might even be called a smile, which he wore with a great deal of grace and ease, which was really just, like, unfair when you thought about it.

He was saved the trouble of finding something else on which to fixate by the ding of the elevator. The doors slid back ponderously slow to reveal the bright white lobby and the dim hallway beyond. From the sound of things, it was properly raining now.

They stood like that a moment, just inside the elevator, and then Eliot prompted, “You have new materials for us?”

“Oh, right, shit. Sorry.” He fumbled with his bag, and Eliot stuck a long arm out to hold the doors as Quentin went fishing through paperwork and paperbacks and a small army of pens with various amounts of ink left in them for the string-wrapped envelope tucked between the Chatwins’ _Kings and Queens_ collection and Stoppard’s _Arcadia_. He peeled off the sticky note Julia had left (a winky face and a heart, thoughtfully stuck on when he hadn’t been paying attention) and passed the whole precious thing over to Eliot, who tucked it under his arm.

“See you around,” said Quentin, closing his bag.

“I hope so,” Eliot returned. Quentin assumed he meant, _I hope I get the opportunity to work with you in the future._

Eliot, however, was grinning at him, wide and more than a little predatory, and Quentin understood immediately the other possibility of his statement and flushed.

“Uh,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Quentin,” Eliot said, and Quentin muttered a harried, “Yep, I, um, you too!”

Then he turned on one heel, marched back through the puddle he had left upon his arrival, and strode out into the stinging November rain before he managed to make a greater fool of himself.

* * *

“C’mon, Q,” said Julia Wicker, fingers wrapped around the paper sleeve of her coffee cup. Outside the rain had faded to a stinging mist; inside the cafe was overcrowded and it was hard to hear oneself think, much less speak. Quentin hunched miserably over his drink, hair dripping in his eyes. “It can’t have been that bad.”

“It was,” he assured her. He had been turning the meeting–– test–– interview–– whatever, over in his head, and no matter how he looked at it he couldn’t imagine it as anything besides a disaster. He sighed and shook his head a little––Julia carefully brushed droplets of water off the plastic lid of her cup––and sighed again. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

“Are they going to take you on?”

“I _thought_ they were.”

“But?”

“They asked to see my new sample.”

“That’s good then, right?”

“But they were… _weird_ about it. I mean, Fogg––”

“Henry Fogg? You actually met with Henry Fogg?”

“I was _late_ to meet with Henry Fogg.” He raked his wet hair out of his face and shivered as it dripped down the back of his shirt. Julia leaned forward.

“But you met him.”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And it was _weird_ , okay? He asked me why I thought it was worth producing my work anyways and if I really wanted them to do it, and I said…” _You need it_ , his overclear memory echoed back to him. Quentin winced. “I pretty much told them I was their only option.”

Julia whistled, low and lost amidst the chatter of the cafe. “Damn, Q.”

“I know. I may as well have just shot myself in the foot and gotten it over with.”

“Maybe not. Did he throw you out?”

“He said he’d read the sample.”

“So that’s a good thing.” She stretched forward over the rickety table to bump her knuckles against his shoulder. “You got in the door!”

“I thought I was in already,” Quentin said, grey and gloomy as the weather. “What if I fucked it up? Maybe I should just sell the rights and let someone make a terrible television show out of it. Then they can bastardize the characters all they want and I can live off the royalties for the rest of my life, another sell-out would-be playwright.”

“Hey,” she said, hard and firm. “None of that. We talked about it. You want to do this, yeah? So you’re doing it.”

“If by ‘doing it’ you mean living hand to mouth as a starving artist––”

“Following your dreams, Q.”

Her mouth pressed in around the corners, a wry and flat little smile to indicate she was perfectly aware of how it sounded, thank you very much. Still, she remained unrepentant. Quentin set his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, ignoring the precarious way in which it wobbled under his unexpected weight. He scrunched up his nose. “Feel like a load of bullshit.”

“But this is the closest you’ve gotten.”

“Yeah.”

“So, follow through. That’s what you’ve been talking about, right?”

Following through, yeah. Picking a goal and sticking with it. Working towards something he wanted. And he _wanted_ to make this work. He did.

It was just… wanting things was hard, and sometimes it was easier to not want them after all.

It was a gloomy thought, the sort he couldn’t shake. Some of that, he supposed, could be blamed on the rain. His moods always took a turn when bad weather set in. Another point for the hack-LA-writer side of the equation.

“Follow through,” he echoed, listless. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” she echoed glumly, gently mocking. Quentin rolled his eyes and picked his elbows up off the table. It rocked in the other direction.

“Okay, okay. Yeah, I’m trying.” He took a sip of his coffee, burning his tongue for his troubles. Julia was still watching him with those sharp eyes, a tick between her brows. He offered her the crooked edge of a smile. “Really,” he promised, more than a little chagrined. He sighed and forced himself to shake off some of the gloom. “I don’t know how I’d do this without you.”

“I’m your guardian angel, Coldwater,” she said warmly, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “I’m watching out for you.”

“Thanks, Jules.”

“Also, I need you to pet sit. Kady and I have this thing in south France.”

“This _thing_?”

“Research trip. Slash birthday present.”

“I want to go to France,” Quentin groused, and Julia patted his cheek fondly.

“Make this thing happen and maybe they’ll let you go for your own research trip.”

“That’s such a long shot I don’t even know where to start,” Quentin returned, but he leaned forward and did his utmost to pay full attention to Julia’s winding explanation of the convent she was traveling to in the name of historical research for the project she was consulting on, and between the warmth of his drink and buzz of the cafe crowd and Julia’s own excitement, his needling anxiety retreated enough that he could very nearly enjoy himself for the evening.

* * *

Else-when and elsewhere––though not too much later, and not too far away among the press of the city––another conversation about the day’s events unfolded.

“You should have seen him, Bambi,” Eliot Waugh was saying, draped across the couch in their cramped glory of a Manhattan apartment. He lay with his feet hanging over the armrest, too long to fit the dimensions of the battered sofa, head propped up on the leg of his oldest and closest friend, smoke curling from the cigarette at his lips. Outside the rain sluiced down, coloring the city even grayer and drabber than usual. Winter was moving in with a vengeance. Eliot took another drag and blew it out slowly, savoring the memory and the smoke. “All dripping and hopeful. The most expressive eyes. I’m sure he’s a tortured soul.”

“Not every writer has to be a tortured soul, El.” Margo Hanson was far less enamored with the turn the conversation had taken than her best friend-slash-roommate, though some of her reticence was for show. This was the manner of their relationship: unconditional support, and unconditional bitching to balance it out. It worked for them, and so neither broached the veneer of it. “Some people just write.”

“But he’s a _playwright_ ,” Eliot insisted, as though it meant something more, which in his mind it did. They were a far more tormented breed; they worked in the theatre, after all.

That he––and Margo, if one were counting, which one was currently not––also worked in the theatre had little bearing on the conversation. His job was largely involved with the the funding and producing of theatre and the prestige that came with the financial sphere of influence. That was a different beast entirely than Art, and any subsequent suffering one might experience in pursuing it.

Margo plucked the cigarette from his fingers, took a drag, and made a face. She blew the smoke out in a long, smooth stream, then said, “You deal with writers all the time and never give a shit. You’re always complaining about them. What’s with the new kid?”

Eliot shrugged a careless shoulder and accepted the cigarette back. “He’s cute.”

“Jesus, El, have you even read his stuff?”

“No.” But that was nothing surprising. It was Todd’s job to read submissions, not his. It was a system that had worked well enough these past few years, and would doubtless continue until Eliot managed to find a position assisting a real producer and escaped the grinding monotony of Brakebills Theatre Co. In fact, he’d recently heard Irene McAllister was seeking a new assistant, and had his eyes firmly set on the job.

Not that Henry Fogg didn’t have it in him, but Brakebills’ days were in the past, and Eliot was more than ready to move on. Greener pastures and grander projects shimmered like mirages on the horizon, and Eliot Waugh was poised to snatch them up as soon as he came close enough. Art was all well and good, but it was a dangerous and uncertain business, and he was far too pragmatic to be caught up in it.

Eliot did not have to be watching Margo to know she was rolling her eyes at him. He likewise did not mention the envelope in his bag, which he had left on the table as soon as he’d gotten home and hadn’t bothered to look at since. He’d get to it. Probably. Reading playwright submissions ran counter to his life’s philosophy, but–– Well, curiosity could prove a powerful motivator, and Eliot was unusually curious about Quentin Coldwater.

“I don’t want to see you get your hopes up over nothing,” Margo said in a way that suggested she cared a great deal more than she was letting on. “You’ve said yourself Fogg hasn’t taken up a new resident since the mess with _Third Year_.”

That curbed his enthusiasm slightly. He sighed and let Margo prod him off her lap, sitting to stretch his legs out across the coffee table.

“True enough, Bambi. But I could at least get his number.”

“So you can seduce him outside of work?”

“Who’s to say I can’t track him down and put a little sparkle in his life. He probably needs it. You really should have seen him.”

“Sure,” Margo drawled, and took the last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. “Think you can do the dishes before all that? They’re piling up.”

“They’re not,” he replied for the sake of argument, and weathered her sharp look with the ease of long practice. “Yes, I’ll do them.”

“Thanks.” She kissed his cheek, scooped up her heels, and made a languid retreat to her room, door clicking shut behind her. Eliot spared a moment to stare fondly in her direction––he did truly love her––and rolled up his sleeves to see to the dishes.

His bag, waiting balefully on the kitchen table where he dropped it, drew his attention with all the subtlety of a brick through a window. Up to his elbows in dish soap and now-cold pasta sauce he ignored it as best he could, which was not particularly well. Hedonism and patience rarely went hand in hand, and Eliot prided himself on his carefully-cultivated streak of hedonism.

Well. He would have to look it over sooner or later. Might as well get it over with.

Once the leftovers were cooling in the fridge and the dishes drying on the rack, he scooped up his things and retreated to his own room, tossing the lot of it onto the chair in front of his desk and fishing out the envelope Quentin Coldwater had handed to him among the blushing and the stutter.

He left it on the bedspread as he stepped through the paces of his evening routine, and not until he was washed, dried, well-moisturized, and had a glass of brandy at his elbow––it was all he could find in the apartment, which was itself a tragedy but one that would keep until tomorrow––did he return his attention to the envelope. _Coldwater_ was scrawled across it in thick marker, and it was tied with string, which was a nice touch, Eliot thought. He appreciated time taken for good presentation.

Feet burrowed under the thick comforter on the end of his bed, propped up on a veritable mountain of pillows, he coaxed the play free of its envelope, slightly water-stained at the corners, and thumbed through the pages before settling on the title.

 _The Magician_. Quaint.

The playwright’s information was printed beneath it: Quentin Coldwater, phone number, an address in Brooklyn. Eliot grimaced. _Brooklyn_.

“Well, Coldwater,” he said, mostly to himself. He reached for his glass and toasted the absent playwright, who had somehow––miraculously, even––struck Henry enough to consider reviving the artist in residency program after the latest disaster. “Let’s see what you have for us.”

He set the title page aside, and the Dramatis Personae, flipping through until he reached––

_Act I._

_Scene I._

_The back room of a bookstore: steel shelves crammed with overstock books, mismatched furniture, a fridge buzzing in the corner. Outside: rain. Patrons file through an ‘Employees Only’ door to mill around the space. A dreary night. An electric night. The CLERK stands on a chair, gathering the crowd’s attention._

It suggested a cast of six, mostly doubled, and told the story of a man seeking to find––and then, when the finding proved fruitless, build––his own world.

And it was mesmerizing.

Eliot had read plenty of plays in his time. It came with the territory, and his degree. Straight plays, musicals, the classics, some incredibly niche avant garde shit, good theatre and bad theatre; he had consumed it all. It was more than impatience or self-image that had him passing off new scripts to Todd; he had done his time and sworn to himself that there would be no more muddling through the garbage churned out en masse by clamoring would-be artistes. Surely his years of more or less (and mostly less) honest work and study had earned him that.

But this, this was something new. Coldwater’s play unfolded with an earnestness genuinely arresting, and Eliot flipped through page after page of loose paper, drink forgotten, resolutely ignoring the flickering numbers of his bedside clock as he read first in idle curiosity, then in reluctant admiration, then with a furious, consuming desire to know how it ended. He found himself drawing up stagings in his mind’s eye, murmuring lines out loud to the dark of his room, speaking life into the text on the page.

And oh, how it lived. How it ebbed and flowed and rose and fell and _breathed_. How deeply, helplessly this little play yearned to live.

When he finished, Eliot sat in his bed for a long minute, legs stretched in front of him, hand resting on the stack of papers discarded on his left. His heart hammered strangely in his chest; he felt as though he had just run a great distance, or climbed a steep hill, or been particularly well fucked. His mind was cotton-clouded and electric all at once. The clock at his side blinked at him, a reminder that it was well past midnight and he had work in the morning. The glass at his elbow was nearly full. He drank from it now and coughed as it went down, unexpectedly sharp.

“Well,” he said into the dim of his room, which seemed to him transformed, alien, magic. “Fuck.”

* * *

The call came early in the morning. Quentin missed it by virtue of being in the shower when it arrived, where he was singing very badly. Between the hiss of the water and his three note (if one were feeling generous) range––of which he was making as much use as he could, which really wasn’t much––he didn’t hear the phone ring even once, and when he stepped out of the shower he found a voicemail waiting for him.

“Shit,” he said, wrapped in his towel, freezing his ass off in his drafty Brooklyn bedroom. “Motherfucker. Shit.” He fumbled with the phone, wet fingers slipping over the screen, and viciously pressed the play button on the recording, hit speaker, and let the phone fall on the bed.

This was so he would be free to pace anxiously as he listened, which he did now, towel flapping around his knees, wet hair tangled in his face.

_“––ling for Quentin Coldwater. Mr. Coldwater, we have reviewed your materials and are pleased to offer you the residency position at Brakebills––”_

“Yes!” The message continued, full of details about things he needed to do next, in the way that these sorts of messages tended to go, but he missed all that because he was busy pumping his fist in the air. He lost his hold on the towel mid victory dance and hardly cared. “Fucking _yes!_ Woooo!!”

“Jesus,” said Penny from down the hall. “Could you please shut the fuck uuuuoh _Jesus_ Coldwater what the _fuck._ ”

“Sorry!” yelped Quentin, grabbing for his towel while his roommate made a sharp one-eighty in the doorway, hands slapping over his eyes. Even Penny’s constant stream of cursing could hardly dampen his spirits. A grin split his face. “Sorry, I just, I got it.”

Penny stayed facing the far wall as Quentin adjusted his towel. “Your weird theatre thing?”

“The residency program, yeah, they accepted me, they’ll–– Holy shit, they’re gonna put up my play. Penny my play’s gonna go up at the House.” Like the Chatwin siblings, and Plover before that, he was–– They were going to–– He could hardly believe it. He was on cloud nine. He was was _above_ cloud nine; he was walking through the, the stratosphere or space itself or whatever came afterwards; he was floating amidst the uppermost firmament of the universe known and unknown, and nothing, not even Penny’s sour, scowling complaints, could bring him down.

Penny, in typical Penny fashion, greeted this bombshell with his usual impatience, which he seemed to reserve in great quantities for Quentin. He peeked over his shoulder and then, when nothing offended his delicate sensitivities, said, “Great, fucking woohoo, could you _please_ put some pants on and stop shouting?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.”

“Jesus,” Penny muttered for good measure, and he let Quentin close the door on him without further complaint. Quentin paced another thrilled circuit around his room, mind turned to static, and threw himself down on the bed, towel tangling around his legs.

“Holy shit,” he breathed to the cracked and peeling ceiling, deliriously happy. “I got it.”

He lay there nearly breathless with joy, then forced himself up to dress. He listened to the voicemail again as he did, hands shaking around the fly of his pants and buttons of his shirt.

_“This is Brakebills’ Theatre Company calling for Quentin Coldwater. Mr. Coldwater, we have reviewed your materials and are pleased to offer you the residency position at Brakebills for the 2016 spring workshop. Please call us back at your earliest convenience to confirm your acceptance. Welcome to Brakebills, Mr. Coldwater.”_

He listened to the voicemail–– _pleased to offer you the residency position_ ––one more time as he toweled his hair dry before returning the call. It rang twice, and then a boy on the other end picked up.

“Brakebills Theatre Co, how may I help you?”

“Hi,” said Quentin, fingers of his free hand tapping against the outside of his leg. He was nervous, suddenly, electric with it. His heart beat against his ribcage. “This is, um, Quentin Coldwater, calling back about the––”

“Oh! Yeah, one sec, hang on.” The line fuzzed for a moment, and Quentin paced a narrow strip across his bedroom floor. Something crackled at the other end, and then the voice came again. “I’m patching you through to Eliot he’ll get you set up. Uh, congrats!”

The line crackled again, and hold music played––an all-strings rendition of a song from a musical Quentin knew he knew but couldn’t place––and then Eliot picked up.

“Eliot Waugh,” he said smoothly, and Quentin’s stomach dipped a moment. “How can I help you today?”

Quentin wet his lips. “This is, um, Quentin. Coldwater. We met briefly last week? Um, I’m calling about the residency program? The guy said he was gonna, um, put me through.”

“Ah. That would have been Todd.” It was a little impressive how much derision Eliot managed to instill in that single syllable. “We’re still trying to teach him manners. Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s alright. He said you can, um, help get things set up?”

“That I can. I’ll need your contact information, availability, and which project you’ll be working on. Oh, and you’ll need to confirm your acceptance, of course.”

“I accept,” said Quentin hastily. “I uh. Definitely accept.”

“Glad to hear it,” Eliot returned, and Quentin couldn’t be sure but it sounded like maybe he was smiling at the other end of the line. “Which project will you be choosing?”

“I… get to pick?”

“The residency program includes a six-week workshop followed by a staged production of a project of the writer’s choosing,” Eliot rattled off. “You can select anything that hasn’t been publicly produced yet. It’s your choice.”

“Really?”

“It was in the fine print, most people miss it.”

Quentin frowned blindly at the opposite wall of his room.

“I guess I just figured I’d do the one my agent sent.” As far as his agent––and mother, and the handful of old college professors he’d sent the play to––had been concerned, it was the most mature, and coherent, and thus the obvious choice for production. Less whimsy, more capital-A Art. The sort of thing that made it to Broadway, instead of silently petering out after a two week run somewhere in Brooklyn. Quentin hadn’t seen the point in arguing, because they were, objectively, correct.

Eliot hummed on the other end of the line. Quentin frowned a little more. Had that been the wrong assumption?

“It’s up to you,” Eliot said slowly, in the sort of way that suggested there was something else he wanted to say. Quentin waited for him to get to it, but the line remained silent.

He cautiously prompted: “But?”

Another beat of hesitation. Quentin perched at the edge of his bed, waiting. 

“I think you should consider the new one.”

“The… that thing I brought in for the interview?”

“Mhm.”

“You… read it?”

“I read all Henry’s submissions.”

God. And he’d thought it was the better option? Was his stuff really _that_ bad?

Quentin pulled a face no one was around to see. “It’s not exactly…” He tried to find a delicate way to put it. “It’s not really, uh. Finished.”

“That’s what the workshop is for,” Eliot returned, easy. Dismissive. Quentin’s stomach twisted.

“Um. Right.”

“I mean, you don’t have to pick right now.”

“Okay.”

The line was silent another moment. Quentin sought something to say and came up short. Eliot, thankfully, beat him to it. 

“You can take the weekend if you want.” He sounded almost gentle. Quentin let out a breath.

“Yeah, okay, that would be–– That would be great actually. I wasn’t expecting to have to, you know. Decide.”

Eliot hummed. “Well, there’s paperwork to sign too, so–– Want to come in Monday? We can do this in person. It’ll probably be easier.”

Quentin winced. “Monday is, um, not great. Would Tuesday work?”

“Tuesday. Sure. Eleven?”

“Perfect.”

“It’s a date,” said Eliot, and then the line went dead, leaving Quentin to blush horribly in the peace and quiet of his own bedroom, which slowly yielded to a bright, blooming smile, and the sensation that something new had opened in front of him.

* * *

It was not, generally speaking, Eliot’s custom to care overly much about what exactly went on at Brakebills. He minded the gossip, of course, and the details Fogg forgot––so, most details, actually––but in terms of the work being produced, he preferred more of a hands-off approach. Less sticking his neck out for others, more taking care of himself.

Which is why it was truly astonishing that he had––he, himself, Eliot Waugh––stuck his neck out so far for the awkward, anxious playwright as to tell Henry that he was the one for the program. 

And he’d meant it too. Even his other works––the sample his agent had sent in the first place, and the excerpts on his horribly-organized website––had the same fire behind them. Tamed, somewhat, but there. Something that reached up off the page and grabbed you, made you listen, made you want to believe.

Eliot was well familiar with intoxication, and he found this sensation strangely similar, which was as unsettling as it was electrifying, and it made him nervous, almost, as he waited for Coldwater to arrive on Tuesday morning.

His hair was tied back today, a few errant strands falling in his face, and he brushed them aside as he entered. He looked more sure of himself, less the meek and bedraggled mess he had two weeks ago. It worked incredibly well for him. Eliot cleared his throat.

“Welcome back,” he said. “This should be relatively painless.”

“Oh, good,” Quentin replied, and followed him into the elevator.

Todd, tucked away behind the reception station where he could do the least amount of harm, waved at them when Eliot scooped a file off his desk. Quentin returned it a little awkwardly.

Eliot ignored the whole exchange and headed for the conference room.

The conference room, despite its title, it was not designed to be a conference room, and barely fit the table and chairs crammed inside it. But it was what they had to work with, so as so often happened around Brakebills, they did their best to make it work. Whoever had used it last had doodled a tree with a clock in the middle of the trunk on the whiteboard with a wilting green marker. Quentin smiled when he saw it, which was nice; he had a sweet, dimpling smile. Eliot made himself busy opening the blinds to let in a little light and frowned down at the people scurrying to and fro below. He was not going soft over a smile; he categorically refused. Even if it came with a clearly talented mind behind it.

Especially then.

 _Get it together_ , he told himself sternly, then dropped into a seat halfway down the table, kicking his legs up on a free chair, projecting as much ease and indifference as he could muster, which was quite a lot. He gestured for Quentin to join him, which Quentin promptly did.

“Sorry about yesterday,” stuttered the playwright as he situated himself. Eliot rolled out his neck and pulled his phone free from his pocket where it dug uncomfortably into his leg. “I was in New Jersey.”

Eliot looked up at him. “God, why?”

“My dad. His health’s not great, so.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He meant it, but the words were awkward in his mouth and even more awkward in the air between them, and Quentin seemed to realize that immediately because he cast his eyes around the table.

“Yeah, it’s um. Anyways. You said there was paperwork?”

“Yes.” He buried his relief and reached for the paperwork. “The boring stuff. Henry would do this, usually, but he’s meeting another applicant this morning.”

Quentin’s expression flickered. “Really? Um, how big is the program?”

“Not for the residency,” Eliot assured him. “She applied for the dramaturg position.” He looked at Quentin with a sudden frown. He hadn’t mentioned any consultants in his application, but that was no guarantee there wasn’t anyone else he wanted to bring on. “Unless you have someone in mind?”

“Not... Really? I mean, my friend Julia usually works with me but she’s in France with her girlfriend, so–– I guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“Well, they say Quinn is one of the best.”

“Quinn–– Alice Quinn?”

Eliot glanced up, curious again. “You know her?”

“Um. A little.” Quentin’s face did something strange and interesting, and Eliot let his attention shift more fully from the paperwork to the man, both eyebrows climbing at the scent of intrigue. “She’s very, um, talented. Definitely one of the best.”

“Hard to work with, I hear,” returned Eliot, testing the waters, and was rewarded with a wince from Quentin. He smirked. Quentin scowled, which was more endearing if anything.

“No more than anyone else,” he said, sounding defensive––of himself or Quinn, Eliot couldn’t tell. Eliot’s smirk deepened, and Quentin pressed valiantly on. “So, how bad’s this paperwork?”

It was an obvious attempt to change subjects, and Eliot kindly let it go. “Most of it’s just formality. And you get a small stipend, so there’s that too.”

“Oh, hey, lucky me,” said Quentin dryly, and then surprised him with a smile. Eliot returned it, almost without meaning to.

“Don’t get too excited. It’s not that much.”

Quentin shrugged. “I work in the theatre. I’ll take what I can get.”

Eliot laughed despite himself and passed Quentin a small stack of papers. “How pragmatic.”

“I do my best.” 

Eliot let him dig into the paperwork in silence, except for occasionally pointing out places to sign, date, initial. Quentin worked with his tongue poking out, slight and pink and just the slightest bit tempting.

Eliot considered him. He was cute in an endearing, hapless sort of way, but there was something beneath it too, a fierceness he wouldn’t have expected. Like there was something banked within him, a great light, or hope, or warmth. _What’s under all that_ , Eliot wondered. What more was there beneath the ill-fitting sweaters and the floppy hair? Curiosity prickled at him.

“Is that it?” Quentin asked some minutes later, rolling out his wrist. Eliot shook himself from his thoughts and skimmed through the documents, all of which were in order.

“Almost,” he said, sliding the last form over. “We still need your decision about what you want to workshop and stage.”

Quentin’s face did a funny little thing as he read the paper, and then his eyes darted aside to Eliot.

“Can I ask you something?” He twisted his pen between his fingers idly, as though he didn’t quite realize he was doing it. Eliot cocked an eyebrow in invitation and watched Quentin chew over the question for a moment. “I–– You said you thought I should consider the new one.”

“I did,” he agreed carefully. Quentin faced him more fully, eyes sharp. It felt remarkably like being _seen_ , and Eliot wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Quentin’s chin pushed out a little bit, like a challenge.

“Why?”

Eliot blinked twice, and opened his mouth, and tried to find something to say besides _it wants to live._ “I... It was good.”

Quentin’s expression flickered, then smoothed over. “Alright,” he said, dubious.

Eliot hesitated, then leaned forward.

“Can I ask you something?” he returned.

“Um, sure?”

“Why apply for the residency at Brakebills?”

Quentin’s mouth twisted, a smile without humor. “Pretty sure I never would have been accepted anywhere else.”

 _Bullshit_ , thought Eliot, and paid him the courtesy of dropping the subject. He leaned back in his chair.

And Quentin sighed.

He opened his mouth and closed it again, and then made a long, thin line. Both eyebrows went up like a shrug, a little helpless, a little challenging. His eyes flicked to the whiteboard and then back to Eliot, and something in Eliot’s chest went hot and tight, patient. Waiting for whatever it was Quentin couldn't decide how to say.

In Quentin’s hand, the pen went _tick tick tick_ against the table and then fell still.

“The work you do here,” he said slowly, carefully, like he was feeling out the edges of the words before he said them. “It’s… magic. It’s just pure magic. It’s not like anywhere else. I mean, you know, there’s always the, the power of live theatre or whatever but Brakebills is–– It’s a whole different world. It’s what made me want to do… all of this in the first place.”

He looked down, as if embarrassed. “Without Brakebills I’d be–– I needed it. It had to be Brakebills.”

Eliot stared at him. He blinked, once, twice, then rapidly, and leaned back again. His heart stuttered hot and strange, and he fought the urge to rub a hand across his chest. Quentin looked up to stare at him again, hard, all banked fire. Eliot had no response. _I know you; I understand you_ , he thought, and couldn’t put the how and why of it into words. He was off-kilter.

He was _losing_ it, Jesus Christ. It took him a moment, but he set aside his teeming thoughts and controlled his expression––God only knew what it had been doing while Quentin had been sitting there with nothing to do but stare at him––and said, careless as anything, “It’s your choice, of course.”

The moment, whatever it had been, shattered like spun glass. Quentin’s face shuttered, and guilt prickled at Eliot for a moment. He shook it away.

“Of course,” echoed Quentin, and he glanced back down at the paper with a frown. For a moment his pen hovered there, then he scribbled down his decision and passed it back to Eliot.

 _The Magician_ was penned down in splotchy blank ink, right above his signature and today’s date. Eliot bit back a sharp, strange, self-satisfied joy and tucked it into the folder with the rest of the forms.

“That’s the last of it,” he said lightly. “I’ll file this and then you’re good to go.” He would get Todd to file it, in fact, but that was a quibble.

“Thanks for your help,” Quentin returned. His expression was a little cautious and soft around the edges, and then suddenly it wasn’t, like he’d remembered himself and tucked away whatever he was thinking. Eliot wondered what that had been, and immediately made himself stop.

“A pleasure,” he returned. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Great.” Quentin stood and collected his things. Eliot showed him out of the room, and down the hall, and back to the elevator. The last thing he saw was Quentin’s tentative smile as the doors closed, and then he was left staring at only his reflection.

He turned around and dropped the paperwork at Todd’s elbow, loud enough to make him jump.

“File this,” he ordered, and stalked back to his own desk. 


	2. Chapter 2

Upon her return from France full of fascinating facts about local deities, Julia’s next project was her birthday.

She held it at a bar called Bigby’s, known in the right circles for its live music and very cheap drinks. It was near her place, and thus very far from Quentin’s, but he weathered the ride into town with the cheery promise of cheap booze, his best friend’s company, and a standing invitation to crash on her couch. Penny came with, because he liked Julia about as much as he hated Quentin, which was quite a lot whichever way you cut it, and it had been easier to make the trip with Quentin than go it alone.

He would _not_ be crashing at Julia’s afterwards. This added to Quentin’s good mood.

Julia, when they arrived, had claimed a wide, U-shaped booth against the far wall, and she wriggled out of it to greet them. Quentin hugged her tight enough to lift her off her feet.

“Happy birthday! Feel any older?”

“Not in the fun way,” she laughed, and accepted the card he passed to her with a raised eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“It’s your birthday, Jules, I got you a present.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said, already opening it. Quentin watched with a soft smile that transformed into a broad, pleased grin once she pried the flap of the envelope up and saw what he’d gotten her. Her head snapped up to look at him, a little teary.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” He managed to keep most of the smugness out of his voice.

“You got tickets?”

“Mhm. Called in like, every favor I’ve ever been owed ever. And I think I agreed to pet- and/or babysit for Poppy for the rest of my life.”

“Oh my god. Q.”

“Obviously you can take whoever you want, but I think you should probably take me.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, tucking the tickets back into the envelope and the envelope somewhere deep in her purse. “Holy shit.”

“Happy birthday,” he said again, and she laughed and hugged him even tighter.

She moved on to greet Penny, so Quentin wandered over to check in with the bartender to confirm they were aware of the party coming in. They were. There were a few standing sets on tonight, the bartender warned him, but they’d be done by eleven or maybe eleven thirty. Karaoke would start at midnight, probably, and hopefully no later than one. Quentin thanked the guy and accepted the pitcher of pre-made margarita he was passed, and ordered himself a beer while he was at it.

By the time he got back to the table, more of the party had arrived: James from undergrad who lit up when he saw Quentin, and Julia’s slightly terrifying friend from work Marina, and––

“Oh,” said Quentin, setting the pitcher down. “Hi, Alice.”

“Hi Q,” she returned a little stiffly. “It’s nice to see you.”

“You too.” This, it should be noted, was true. He liked Alice quite a lot. He just hadn’t been particularly good at dating her.

Though, she hadn’t been particularly good at dating him either, so the question of blame could be evenly distributed, which it had been at one point, very loudly. They’d worked things out.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t sort of incredibly awkward to run into her here like this. He glanced up at Julia with a quick _what the hell_ frown and received a wincing _sorry_  of a shrug in reply. Quentin sighed and tucked his hair behind his ear and sat in the open seat next to Alice. She shifted aside to let him.

For an agonizing moment they sat in the relative silence of the busy bar. Someone up on stage belted out a surprisingly on-pitch rendition of Anything Goes. Then they both tried to speak at once, got tangled up in each other, and smiled the same embarrassed smile.

It was nice to know some things didn’t change.

“Sorry,” said Quentin. “You first.”

“I heard you got the residency at Brakebills.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I heard you might be, uh, working there too?”

“Yes, Henry offered me the job. And I accepted.” She looked at him, hard, as if daring him to argue.

He didn't. He was strangely relieved, actually. If there was anyone he trusted to do the work no matter what, it was Alice.

And––this was even smaller, but no less significant––it would be nice to have someone familiar on his team.

“That’s great, Alice.”

“Thank you.” She pressed her lips together. “I didn’t know it would be you, you know.”

“I don’t–– I mean, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Okay.”

“I–– it’ll be nice working together again.”

She looked at him askance. “I guess.”

“I mean it. It’s always, y’know, nice to work with you. I don’t mean that in a–– I’m just saying, it’ll be cool is all.” God. Why was _talking_ to people always such a goddamn ordeal.

“I guess,” she repeated, but her shoulders dropped a little, and she unwound enough to pour herself a drink, which made Quentin feel less like a foot.

They were saved the unbearable agony of making further small talk by Penny, who also liked Alice more than he liked Quentin. This was a bit of a pattern, actually, which they had only discussed once. 

(The conversation had consisted of Penny flopping down on their couch and saying, “Jesus, Coldwater, how are you friends with so many cool girls when you’re, like, the limpest dick.”

To which Quentin had eloquently and thoughtfully replied, “Can you please just go fuck yourself and leave me alone.”

And that had been the extent of it.)

“Hey, Alice,” he said, sliding into the booth on the other side of Quentin. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” she said, looking about as relieved as Quentin felt. Quentin excused himself, and extracted himself––which was difficult to do since Penny refused to move to let him out, grinning about it the whole time like the asshole he was––and then he and his beer joined Julia and James on the other side of the table.

Their breakup had been much more amicable, and was far older news, and now they were chatting cheerfully about high school, and Quentin was happy to join them.

“And remember when Q threw up at that pool party junior year?” James asked extra loudly, just for him.

Or not.

“You suck,” he said.

“I suck,” James agreed, and hugged him over Julia, who spluttered and laughed and made half-hearted attempts to pry them apart. “How’s it been?

“It’s good.”

Julia draped her arms across both of them. “Q’s about to start a residency at a local playhouse.”

“Oh shit, really? Broadway bound, huh?”

“I think there are a few steps in between,” Quentin said. James laughed and clapped his back.

“I always knew you were gonna make it big.”

“You just want me to thank you at some big award ceremony.”

“Excuse you, I want to be your date to some big awards ceremony.” 

“Get in line,” said Julia. Quentin snorted, pleasantly happy and loose, and stayed talking with them long enough for a handful of Julia’s work friends to stop by, and for him to finish his beer.

“Anybody want anything?” he asked, standing. “Julia? It’s your birthday.”

“Something sweet,” she said. “And the bartender mentioned something about a wings special when I got here, so…”

“I’ll check,” Quentin promised, and wound his way back to the bar.

There was indeed a wings special, two-for-one. Quentin placed an order, and picked something for Julia at random, and braced himself back against the bar to wait for it.

Up on stage, the microphone squealed, cutting through the chatter and the music playing between sets. Everyone groaned.

“Sorry about that,” said the performer at the piano. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

Quentin looked up, and did a double take.

And then he did a triple take, just to make sure. One had to be certain about these sorts of things.

But, no; he hadn’t imagined it. Up on stage, long limbs folded comfortably in front of the baby grand, sat Eliot. Shirt unbuttoned low, hair a perfect mess, eyes dark; he looked like he had stumbled out of a nightclub and landed in front of the piano and didn’t overly mind the change. He grinned out over the crowd. Quentin briefly transcended his body.

“Now that I have your attention,” said Eliot smoothly, “I hope you won’t mind if I keep it?”

He played a few chords. Someone in the back whistled. Eliot sketched a bow in that direction.

“My name’s Eliot. I’ll be your entertainment––” punctuated by a piano run–– “for the remainder of the evening.”

Quentin's order arrived. He fumbled it all together and ducked back towards the table, hair hiding his face as Eliot slid into his set, voice impossibly light. God. He was going to have a heart attack right here in the middle of the bar. Jesus.

“Here’s your drink.” Quentin set it in front of Julia with a little too much force, keeping his back carefully angled towards the stage. This unfortunately put him in the perfect position for Julia to peer up at him, confused.

“Q?”

“Mm.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!”

Concern crept across her face. “Q––”

And now he was fucking with her birthday. He took a deep breath. “Nothing it’s just, um.” Up on stage Eliot was singing something from _My Fair Lady,_ he was pretty sure, and Quentin, not quite sober enough to handle everything that was happening, went a little pink. One of Julia’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. “It’s, uh, Eliot.”

“Who?”

“The guy up on stage, he’s this guy at the company. Brakebills. He, um. We've talked a couple of times.” Oh yeah, he was definitely blushing. He felt hot to the tips of his ears.

Julia stared at him in confusion, and then the pieces clicked together and she broke out in a huge, thrilled grin. “Oh shit.”

Quentin swallowed. “Um.”

“Wow, you should see your face. What does he––” She leaned out of the booth to get a better view of him as Quentin stuttered and did his best to push her back down. She gave him a long once over, then turned back to Quentin.

“Damn, Coldwater,” she said. “He’s really hot.”

“Okay can you, like, _not_ ––”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about him.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Quentin protested feebly, slumping down in the booth.

“Uh huh,” Julia hummed, and shifted out of the way to let him sit.

This unfortunately––well, fortunately too, but mostly unfortunately––meant Quentin now had a clear line of sight on Eliot with his fucking, like, collarbones, and his hands dancing across the keys and his eyes half closed as he _crooned_ in–– that wasn’t even English, what the fuck––

He sought something else to occupy himself and landed on the margarita pitcher right in front of him, and a drink right now sounded like a marvelous thing so he poured himself one and disappeared into it for long enough to tamp down the blush somewhat. He emerged spluttering. Alice gave him a strange look across the table, and Julia patted his back not unkindly.

“What are the chances, though?” she asked. Quentin fought the urge to put his head down on the table.

“I know,” he mumbled, heart clattering along in his chest, and let the conversation carry him along in its wake. Julia’s birthday group grew––Kady arrived with a present and an appalling display of PDA––and Quentin forced himself to relax. The chatter of the group grew louder as it grew larger, which helped.

The alcohol also helped. The alcohol helped a lot.

He ended up engrossed in a conversation with one of Julia’s work friends about the theatrics of worship and where action and intention intersected––which was fascinating, actually, in terms of belief and presentation, and he half wanted to fish out a notebook to jot all this down––so he missed the music stopping, until––

“I understand there’s a birthday party here? Don’t be shy, where’s the birthday girl? Come on up.”

Quentin’s head popped up just in time to catch sight of Julia, perched up on the back of the booth, stand up.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Julia looked at him, wide-eyed and thrilled, and fully ignored his frantic head shake to climb out of the booth, picking her way over him. Penny and James helped hoist her up onto the stage, and she waved out at the bar crowd, a little awkward. Eliot twisted on the bench to grin up at her.

“And what’s your name?”

She leaned in towards the mic. “Julia.”

“Julia. Well, happy birthday, Julia. Let’s do this properly, shall we? A one, two, three––”

Julia beamed as the bar sang her a raucous, somewhat tone-deaf rendition of Happy Birthday, and once the last note faded Eliot kissed––actually kissed, bowed head and everything––the back of her hand. Julia looked up to meet Quentin’s eyes, face saying all sorts of things, most of which boiled down to _Holy shit, Q._

Quentin’s face in return said, _Yeah I know now can you please get off the stage and let’s all forget this ever happened._ This would have been difficult for anyone else to understand, but it was Julia. She laughed.

She got off the stage, though. Eliot’s eyes followed her back to the table, where they landed on Quentin, and he stared in open surprise for a moment before breaking into a wide smile. Quentin’s heart rate skyrocketed. 

He smiled back as best he could and waved a little until he was rescued (finally, blessedly) by Julia, who shoved him over so she could sit down.

“Wow,” she said, still grinning. Quentin dared a glance back up in Eliot’s direction, but his attention had moved back to the piano, from which he was coaxing some truly beautiful music. Quentin sagged a little, puppet with its strings cut. Julia leaned into him. “Q, you have got to take one for the team and tap that.”

“I’m going to smoke,” said Quentin, and he made his escape.

The frigid air helped clear his head, and the cigarette helped calm his nerves. He was freaking out over nothing, absolutely nothing. Yes it was a surprise, and yes it was… impressive that he was so well-rounded, but half the people in this city were performers of some sort, and there was no need to be weird about it. He could go back in and just–– act like a person.

So he took a few deep breaths, and finished his cigarette and stubbed it out against the wall, and walked directly into someone coming out of the bar.

“Careful,” said Eliot, catching him by the shoulders. “Your friend said you were out here.”

“Um,” said (it was more of a squeak) Quentin. Barely an arm’s length away, he caught the scent of Eliot’s–– aftershave or cologne or something, which was just. Wow. His mouth went dry. “Hi.”

Eliot smiled slow and pleased and smoothed his hands down Quentin’s shoulders as he let him go, which didn’t help, like, at all. “Hi.”

“Hi,” interjected a third voice, and Quentin realized suddenly Eliot had someone with him, a small woman in a red dress and hair curling in perfectly mused ringlets that suggested she had spent a great deal of time styling it. She had wide brown eyes and a sharp red mouth, and she was staring Quentin up and down in obvious judgement.

She said, “I’m Margo. So this is him.”

Quentin felt rather like the deer in the proverbial headlights. Margo’s head tilted. “He’s not that cute.”

Eliot rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Quentin.

“You weren’t leaving, were you?”

“Wouldn’t blame you if you were,” Margo added, and Quentin went looking for his tongue.

“No I just. Came out for some air. You were, uh, really good.” The last bit was addressed to Eliot, who preened under the praise until Margo smacked him in the arm. 

“Then come back inside and buy us a drink. Eliot won’t shut up about you and your dumb play.”

“Bambi,” said Eliot, wrapping one arm gently around her shoulders. “Be nice.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Feeling rather like he was being kidnapped in a weirdly amicable way, he followed the odd pair back into the bar. He did not, in fact, buy them drinks––as it turned out, performers received theirs comped––but he did order himself another beer, because his buzz had worn thin and he was pretty sure this was the sort of conversation he’d royally fuck up sober, and he’d like to be friends with Eliot––and by extension Eliot’s friend––for at least the night.

He could go back to making a mess of himself in the light of a new day, but hell if he was going to ruin one perfectly good evening.

“So. You write.” Margo sipped something through a narrow red straw that matched her dress and her mouth, lounging on a bar stool she’d managed to talk someone out of in the brief minute that Quentin had been busy with the bartender. Eliot leaned next to her, elbows braced against the bar top, swirling something mint green and glowing in this glass. They were the sort of class Quentin couldn’t hope to reach, and he was well aware of it.

But then Eliot reached around Margo to clink their glasses together, and he felt a little less like he was all odd angles to their bold strokes.

“Yeah,” he said to Margo.

She considered him, then said––said, not asked–– “You did the show about the card tricks. The one that went up at The Garden Path.”

“I–– Wow, yeah, that–– How––”

“Margo’s an actress,” Eliot said. “She knows everyone and everything.”

“I’d know everything anyway,” Margo informed Quentin, as though her credibility were on the line, which it wasn’t. “The acting's a bonus.”

“What have you–– I mean, would I have seen––?”

“You want my resume?”

“No, sorry, I just––”

“She did Cabaret at Studio 54,” Eliot answered for her.

“I was in the ensemble. It barely counts.”

Everything in their line of work was about degrees of separation, but this was above and beyond Quentin’s meagre social-slash-work circle. He stared, and then tried not to stare. “That’s–– Holy shit, wow, I bet that was great.”

“It was,” she agreed.

“Alan Cumming is a dream,” sighed Eliot. “And Margo was fantastic, of course.”

“Damn right,” she agreed, and tilted her cheek up for Eliot to kiss, which he did. She swirled her straw through her drink, ice clinking.

“What about you?” Quentin asked Eliot.

“I'm also fantastic. Sweet of you to ask.”

“No, I mean, do you… uh.”

“I think he wants to know if you’re an actor, El.”

“I just–– I mean, I saw you up there––” On stage, he meant, performing like he was born for it. Eliot’s face shuttered for a moment, then he scoffed.

“Please. Brakebills would collapse without me. Could you imagine if Henry actually had to run things himself? They wouldn’t last a day. Besides.” He tipped back the last of his drink, throat bobbing above his open collar. “I don’t act.”

“Bullshit,” muttered Margo.

Eliot leveled a brief look at her, sharper than Quentin had seen from him before, but Margo only shrugged, unrepentant, and that was somehow the end of it. Maybe they were dating, he thought, though that didn’t line up with his… understanding of Eliot. Whatever the connection between them, it was clearly deep, and unspoken, and confusing as hell.

“I have a standing set,” Eliot shrugged. “Bigby––the owner––she taught at my undergrad. She lets me play for tips, and I bring her the best business.” He winked at Quentin as he said it, and Quentin’s face went pink. He prayed the bar lighting hid it. He was lucky not to choke on his drink.

“Plus it gives him his weekly ego-stroking, so––”

“There now, Bambi,” said Eliot. “My ego’s not the only thing getting stroked.”

Quentin _did_ choke on his drink, which made both Margo and Eliot smile in obvious glee, and––

“Q!”

He had never been more glad to see Julia in his life. She took in the scene in a heartbeat, and looped her arm through his, a silent show of support, and also it let her dig her elbow into his side with a brief _what’s this_ look. Good ol’ Jules.

"Oh, good, you found him," she said brightly to Eliot.

"Indeed we did."

"Skulking," Margo added.

"Hey," Quentin protested, completely ignored.

Margo held out a hand to Julia. “I'm Margo. Happy birthday.”

“Julia,” Julia returned. "Thanks." And with introductions completed, Julia invited them all back to the table.

It had emptied out in the time Quentin had been gone. James had left––Quentin was sorry to miss him––and Julia’s work friends had, well, work in the morning. Eliot slid into the back of the booth and propped his legs up in Margo’s lap, and quickly fell into a conversation with Alice of all people which, from what Quentin caught of it, was about the particulars of Brakebills’ workshop model and the infamous disaster that had been the run of Martin Chatwin’s _Beast_ back in the day. He himself ended up in a strange conversation with Margo and Penny about college production horror stories.

It wasn’t the weirdest bar conversation he’d had, but it was up there.

At some point among the shuffling he found himself next to Eliot again. They perched up on the back of the booth, feet planted on the seat below. To one side, Penny and Julia and Kady shouted at each other over the din of the bar, while Alice and Margo talked on the other, Alice’s hands moving through the air as she spoke, a clear sign that she was drunk.

But Quentin was too, so he couldn’t blame her. It was nice to see her happy about something. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. She deserved to be happy, Alice.

“Your friends are surprisingly cool,” Eliot said suddenly. Quentin blinked.

“Like, considering?” _Considering I’m me?_ he meant, but that seemed too much effort to put into words.

“No,” Eliot said. Quentin didn’t entirely know what to do with that.

“Oh.”

Eliot hummed, and took another sip of his margarita. He made a face every time he did so, like it offend him personally, but seemed determined to finish it.

“Margo seems… cool, too.” Cool didn’t quite cover it. Terrifying, maybe. Awesome in the daunting and impressive and mightier-than-thou sense of the word. Eliot smiled, loose and easy.

“She’s something.” He didn’t seem inclined to expand in what something she was, exactly, but Quentin understood that.

“Are you guys, um––” One hand waved through the air, as if he could impart his question without actually saying anything. Eliot took pity on him.

“Together? Only in the platonic sense of the word.”

“Oh.”

“Interested? I should warn you, she’ll eat you alive. Though, I hear some guys like that.”

“No, that isn’t what I–– I mean, Margo isn’t–– I mean she seems very, uh, nice, but––” He was digging himself a deeper hole; he was hitting rock and breaking out the pickaxe. He shut up. Eliot was staring at him, something unreadable across his face, and then blinked and it was gone, replaced with a curling smirk.

“Oh?” he asked, low and drawn out, and really one syllable shouldn’t be laden with so much–– everything. It was unfair. Shouldn’t be allowed.

Quentin flushed. “I was just–– wondering.” And he took a big gulp of his drink.

“Wonder away,” Eliot invited, positively salacious, and returned to his margarita. Quentin watched him––the sip, the wince, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed––and wondered if it was possible to die of mortification, and if it was mortification if you were sort of into it. 

“Um,” he said, a little desperate to change the subject. “Where’d you learn how to play?”

Eliot looked at him. “School,” he said. “I used to accompany the vocal students. It pays shockingly well.” He tilted his head down at Margo. “That’s how we met.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Where’d you learn how to write?”

“School,” Quentin replied, and laughed. “Um, I don’t know. I was doing it anyways, and then eventually realized I could like. Study it too? So. Here I am. Starving artist, and all that.” Eliot was still staring at him, eyes strangely sharp. Quentin’s hand twisted around his drink. “What?”

“You’re a good writer,” he said, and his eyes flickered away.

“I–– uh. Thanks.” Quentin frowned down at his drink. “I really hope I don’t fuck this up.”

“You won’t.” His response came immediately. Quentin laughed, brittle.

“I don’t know. I... break a lot of stuff.”

Eliot shrugged. They were close enough that Quentin could feel the brush of it against his shoulder.

“Maybe you’ll be surprised,” he said, and Quentin snorted.

“If you’re trying to tell me it’s going to be fine––”

“Oh, no. It’s theatre. It’ll be a mess. But you’ll hardly be alone.”

Hardly alone. That was a nice thought. Quentin hummed, relaxing enough that their shoulders bumped against each other again.

He felt strange, he felt nice, he felt happy.

Karaoke started, and time began to slip and drip around him. He collected memories like photographs: Julia listing against him, laughing; Kady belting out something by ABBA; Eliot and Margo singing a perfect duet, arms curled around each other’s waists and crowded around the microphone; Alice smiling against her glass and trying to hide it; Penny dancing like a complete loser while Kady and Julia threw wadded up shreds of napkin at him in some strange sort of competition; Quentin standing up in front of everyone with Julia and ruining a perfectly good pop song and feeling _happyhappyhappy_ , spotlight-hot and glowing.

“Hey, Q,” Julia said later that night, when they were both splayed out in her too-big bed like children again, the room spinning slowly around them.

“Hmm?”

“I had a really good birthday.”

Quentin felt that flash of happiness again _._ He wanted to stay like that forever, nothing but joy and love and magic. He sighed up to the ceiling, all light. “I love you, Jules.”

“Love you too.”

* * *

The last Monday of November, Henry Fogg called Eliot into his office.

“Close the door,” he said, which Eliot was already in the process of doing. He weathered Eliot’s dirty look with the ease of long practice. They had been doing this for some time now, and were quite familiar with each other’s disdain, and in fact each found a strange sort of comfort in it. Not, of course, that either cared to ever admit that. 

Henry said, “Sit.”

Eliot sat.

“Eliot,” said Henry. “I think you should audition for the workshop.”

“I’m sorry,” said Eliot once he had finished choking around the breath he had been in the process of inhaling. “What?”

“I think––”

“No, I heard you. I–– Why?”

Henry frowned. “I’ve seen your audition tapes.”

“What audition tapes?”

“Bigby––”

“Oh, God. From _undergrad_?”

“You’re a very talented actor.”

Eliot was well aware of the way Henry Fogg’s mind worked, on the occasion that it worked, but had rarely found himself on the receiving end of this sort of rapid-fire life advice. It was exactly as unpleasant as he imagined it would be.

“Henry,” he said. “I’m your assistant. I push papers around and take meetings you don’t want to go to. I’m not an _actor_.”

“Yes, I wanted to discuss that too.”

“Your going to meetings?”

“Your position with this company.”

Eliot frowned and leaned back in his chair, suddenly wary. It wasn’t exactly a secret that he had been speaking with Irene McAllister about working with her; she was a prolific producer in the community and had close ties with Brakebills at one point, so there was hardly a need to hide his interest.

But now he wondered if perhaps that was to his detriment. Surely he must have done something wrong if Henry was dragging up his atrophied acting career.

“What about my position?” he asked carefully.

“I’d like to promote you.”

“You––” It was like a bad comedy sketch. “What?”

Henry leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk. “I am aware of the work you have been doing in preparation for next year’s workshop–– No, don’t look at me like that, I do happen to know what my staff does, despite all evidence to the contrary.” He meant _despite the heavy drinking,_  which they both knew and politely skirted around as they had done these past years. “So I am aware of the work you have done, and believe we should arrange for your job title to fit the duties you have taken on.”

“Um. Great?”

“Yes. I’d like for you to take the associate director position.”

Eliot stared at him, then frowned, brow furrowing rather impressively if he did say so himself. “Do we… have an associate director position?”

“We do now.”

“Ah.”

“Well?”

Eliot frowned deeper. “If I take it, will you promise to never again ask me to audition for anything?”

“No.”

“Why––”

“It is my job,” said Henry, “to foster talent where I see it, and I see it––no matter how hard to try to hide it, Mr. Waugh––in you.”

“Jesus,” muttered Eliot.

“I saw it when you first applied, and I hoped your time here might foster it.”

“Clearly you were wrong.”

“I’m not so sure.”

They stared at each other for a long minute, neither willing to budge. Eliot firmly refused to acknowledge any old, withered dream he may have once had pertaining to stagecraft, and Henry peered at him as though he could see Eliot working overtime to squash that younger, stupider version of himself.

It was an impressive standoff which no one saw, because it occurred entirely in the confines on the artistic director’s office.

“Okay,” said Eliot finally. “Counter offer: I take the associate director position, neither of us mention that I’m pretty much doing your job for you, _you_ never bring up the acting thing again, and I won’t leave you stuck with Todd to go work for Irene McAllister halfway through the workshop.”

Henry frowned for a long, harrowing minute. “I don’t like it.”

“Me neither. Do we have a deal?”

Henry’s frown deepened. “Very well.”

“And we’ll never talk about this again.”

“I make no promises.”

Eliot added, “And I want a pay raise.”

“We’ll consider your end-of-year bonus,” Henry allowed. They shook on it.

“I’m not an actor, Henry,” Eliot told him as he stood.

“You could be spectacular,” Henry replied, and said nothing more as Eliot stalked out of his office with a scowl and the churning, unpleasant sensation of desiring the impossible.

He threw himself back into workshop planning and shouted at Todd twice, and by the time the end of the day rolled around felt almost comfortable in his skin again.

His last thought on the matter was that it had better be a good fucking end-of-year bonus, and April couldn’t come fast enough.

* * *

The workshop began in January, so Quentin spent most of December setting his affairs in order, or in as much order as he could manage. This was hardly his first rodeo, metaphorically speaking––though it was by far the nicest rodeo he’d been a part of, and the first where he was the prize cow or whatever, and actually that was maybe not the best metaphor––and he was well aware of how time vanished once one started workshopping a new piece. He cut back his hours at the old antique repair shop down the road, bought enough ramen to remind him unpleasantly of undergrad, and spent the holidays with his family: Christmas with his dad and New Years with his mom, which, like most compromises, left no one happy. He and Julia saw _Hamilton_ on a miserable, sleeting night the first week in January and sobbed through the whole of the second act. He received numerous emails from Eliot about scheduling and personnel and materials, and was asked to sign off on the in-house director and dramaturg, which he did with only minor trepidation. He tried not to be precious about his work. If it couldn’t stand up to someone else’s interpretation, it probably didn’t deserve to stand at all.

At some point among the whirlwind he spent a dark and dismal couple of days staring up at his ceiling wondering why anyone even bothered because none of it _mattered_ and nobody _cared_ before Penny bullied him into cleaning out the fridge, which helped. As usually happened in these rare instances when Penny proved they really were friends no matter how often they professed to hating each other, they mutually agreed not to mention it.

The first day of the workshop dawned cold and windy. Quentin showed up at the House with his bag over his shoulder and his nerves shot. He was early by half an hour––either a good habit or a symptom of his rampant anxiety, depending on how you cared to frame it––so he loitered by the stage door, triple and quadruple checking his phone just in case he had somehow read the email wrong. But no, this was it. Right day, right place. He was just early.

Snow drifted down in light flurries, turning to slush almost as soon as it hit the sidewalk. The sky was mirror-grey and heavy, the gloom of a New York winter. He lit a cigarette and tucked himself under the eaves and watched cars squelch past, black sedans and yellow taxis with tinted windows, and waited for someone to let him in.

Someone, as it turned out, was Eliot. He arrived with a spring in his step despite the miserable weather, dark collar of his coat pulled up against the wind and snow. It made him look even taller and leaner, if that were possible, and he filled out every inch of it like he wasn’t even trying.

“Quentin,” he exclaimed. “Good to see you. You look good.”

“Hi,” said Quentin, grinding out his cigarette beneath the toe of his shoe. “You too.”

He meant both that it was great to see him and that he looked good. Eliot glanced at him knowingly, and even though it made him flush, some of Quentin’s humming anxiety quieted.

It was hard to maintain all that nervous energy when faced with Eliot’s effortless ease was all. Quentin liked that.

“Ready for this?”

“Probably not.”

Eliot produced a set of keys from his bag and went flipping through them. “You’ll be fine,” he said, and favored Quentin with a small, surprisingly kind smile. “Today is mostly meet and greet. Getting people in the room. The real fun starts later.”

He found the key he was looking for and opened the door, ushering Quentin in.

“Can’t wait,” muttered Quentin, which made Eliot laugh. He clapped a hand on Quentin’s shoulder.

“You’ll be fine,” he repeated, gaze and hand and tone warm, and the combination made Quentin go a little breathless. Then he was gone, striding down the hall, flipping on lights and hallo-ing the space. It was blessedly dry after the damp misery outside, and it smelled of old carpet and sawdust. Like a theatre, essentially.

Quentin brushed his hair out of his face and followed Eliot down the hall, squeezing down a narrow stairwell to a sublevel corridor that opened into a wide rehearsal space. A pair of old mismatched couches had been pushed back against the far wall and a few chairs set in an awkward semicircle around them. A set of shelves piled high with paper loomed in one corner next to a heavy wooden table upon which sat a water cooler and coffee maker and thick coil of orange extension cord. A big metal door led out the far side of the room, and Quentin stood in the doorway as Eliot strode through the room and thought––

_This is the play. This is my play._

It struck him with the same sort of wonder he always felt stepping out onto a stage, even a black and bare one. For a moment, just a moment, magic sparked, and it all seemed quite sensible to give months of his life to this project, whatever came of it.

“Help me with this?” Eliot’s voice cut through his wonder. He stood next to an extra long folding table, fingers caught under the lip.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” The two of them wrestled it over to the couches. Eliot claimed a seat at one end and started pulling things out of his bag, folders and thick packets stapled together and his laptop. Quentin set his own bag in one of the chairs and hovered awkwardly, breathing in the sweat-and-dust smell of an old rehearsal space. It helped his nerves. He knew this part. He’d been here plenty of times before. It was just another workshop, really. That this was Brakebills didn’t seem quite so overwhelming from down here.

On the table, Eliot’s phone buzzed, and he made a face. “Can you let Fen in?”

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed automatically, and only realized he didn't know who Fen was after he was out of the room. He retraced his steps, only getting turned around once, back to the stage door where a woman with long honey-dark hair shivered in the recesses of a heavy green coat.

This would be Fen, then.

“Hi,” she said brightly when Quentin opened the door, teeth clattering. “I’m Fen, I’m here for the workshop?”

“Hi, yeah. I’m Quentin, I’m the–– I’m here for the workshop too.”

“Oh! You’re the playwright!” There was something unassuming and sweet about her that made him like her immediately, and she ducked inside as he opened the door further. “It’s really nice to meet you, Quentin. Are we the first ones here?”

“Eliot’s down in the, um, basement? He’s setting up.”

“Eliot!” She perked up even more at that, pausing midway through unbuttoning her coat to beam at him again. “Oh, wonderful!” And without another word she disappeared down the hall, leaving him alone. Quentin stared after her for a moment, but then there was a knock at the door.

It was Alice.

“Hi, Q,” she said, tugging her scarf off. “Am I the first one here?”

“No, they’re down in the basement. It’s just, um, down the hall. I can show you?”

The muffled tap of Alice’s heels followed him back to the rehearsal room, where he walked in on Fen hugging Eliot tightly. Eliot caught Quentin’s eye over his shoulder and shrugged a little, as if to say _well, what can you do?_

Quentin returned the gesture with a tentative smile of his own and drifted back to his chair to shed his coat and skim through his emails. The room slowly came to life around him. Henry Fogg arrived with the receptionist––that would be the infamous Todd, then––who lugged a veritable crate of pastries into the room, and in the tried and true manner of millennials the world over, Quentin immediately helped himself to the free food. Fen fretted over the coffee maker until a small, slight man with a smaller, slighter dog at his heel helped her get it working. He wasn’t the only stranger in the room: there was a woman with a light English accent he thought he recognized but couldn’t place; a girl with short, dark hair; and a harried-looking man who made a beeline for Eliot and spoke continuously in his ear for––Quentin timed it––nine minutes straight.

Quentin sat at the table next to Alice and did his best to stay out of the way.

At five past the hour Henry cleared his throat and everyone quieted, finding places around the table. It was rather sparsely populated, all told. A woman with a high, tight bun slipped in the door at the last minute. Quentin found himself sitting between Alice on one side and the harried-looking man on the other, who exuded enough nervous energy to make Quentin feel calm and steady, which was pretty fucking impressive.

“Well now,” said Fogg, standing at his end of the table. He peered them all over one by one with all the intent of a schoolmaster studying his charges. “Welcome to the fortieth iteration of the Brakebills New Playwright Program. We’re very pleased to have all of you here. I know you’ll do the program proud.” This was addressed directly to Quentin, who quailed slightly under Henry Fogg’s sharp gaze.

Fogg clapped his hands together. “So. Let’s introduce ourselves, shall we? Miss Quinn, if you’d like to start.”

Alice, to her credit, only jumped a little. She looked around the table and raised a hand in greeting. “Alice Quinn,” she said. “Dramaturg.”

“Eliot,” said Eliot on the other side of her. “Associate Director.”

Quentin blinked. He hadn’t thought Brakebills had an associate director. Though, Eliot had only ever signed his emails with "Eliot" and sometimes a smiley face, so who was he to say.

“Hi! I’m Fen,” Fen said brightly.  “Stage manager.”

That was more of a shock than Eliot’s job title. Quentin wasn’t the only one staring. She… well, didn’t particularly strike him as the management type.

“Plum,” said the girl on the couch. She made eye contact with Quentin a smiled a little, like a formality. “Writer’s assistant. I’ll be fetching the coffee.”

That earned her a stuttering laugh from the group.

“Eliza, consultant.” That was the English woman. Next to her with the bun was Pearl Sunderland, managing director, and Henry Fogg next to her.

“You all know who I am,” he intoned, and Quentin couldn’t tell if it was meant as a joke or he was daring them to argue. No one did.

“Todd,” said Todd, smiling a fretful smile that didn’t entirely reach his eyes. “I’m Director Fogg’s assistant.”

“Rafe,” said the man with the dog. “Assistant coordinator.”

“Tick Pickwick.” This was the man next to Quentin. “Coordinator. Please inform me of any and all scheduling conflicts immediately, thank you.”

And then it was his turn. “Hi, um. Quentin Coldwater. I’m the playwright in residence for the, uh, program.”

No one looked particularly impressed. Alice gave him a tight smile that he imagined was meant to be encouraging. Fogg cleared his throat.

“Wonderful. Now that we all know who everyone is–– Todd, if you’ll pass out the welcome packets…”

Eliot had been right; it was fine. It was like the first day of classes, meeting the professors and going over the syllabus, basic housekeeping. All of the details he and Eliot had spent days emailing about was shared with the group at large: a couple weeks of intensive table work followed by a six-week workshop followed by a transition to the mainstage and a run open to the public to go up in April, with the possibility of extending it should all go well. Quentin would be there for all of it, ergo the residency.

“Or you could just sleep in the green room,” Plum suggested, which Tick immediately shot down, scandalized. Eliot snorted.

All told it was a dizzying schedule. It reminded him of grad school, sort of, the round-the-clock work and the satisfaction of throwing himself into a new project, of clouding his mind with something tangible and demanding enough to force him to live outside his own head. And it was like Eliot had said––he wouldn’t be alone here. The team would only grow as they went, and standing here at the precipice the thought excited him more than frightened him, which was–– good. Nice. Satisfying in that sort of uncomfortable way, like picking a scab. 

He would be in it, fully immersed, breathing and eating and dreaming theatre. It would be exhausting. It could be fantastic.

Unless the work killed him, of course, but he could think of worse ways to go.

They broke early, and Quentin politely informed Tick Pickwick that he spent every other weekend out of the city visiting his dad, but he could work around that if he needed to.

“Well I suppose it can’t be helped,” sniffed the coordinator, and went to corner someone else. Quentin stared after him.

“He’s always like that,” said Eliot, appearing from nowhere.

“Doesn’t he get tired?”

Eliot shook his head. “I think he enjoys it.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“I know.”

They both stared after him for a moment.

“Hey,” said Quentin. “Did you get, like, promoted?”

“Oh, yeah. Surprise.”

“Congrats.”

“Thanks,“ said Eliot. He looked like maybe he wanted to say more, but Quentin’s phone picked that exact moment to ring. He jumped.

“It’s–– Shit, sorry, it’s my mom, I have to––”

Eliot waved away the apology. “Of course. Tell her hi.”

Quentin half turned to him, just enough to be sure that he was joking, which he certainly seemed to be, and then his phone buzzed again, his mother’s contact picture frowning up at him, so he hummed a hasty agreement and slipped out into the hallway to take the call.

* * *

His dad sighed when he showed up. 

“I’m fine.”

Quentin ignored him. He strode through the entrance to the kitchen and put on water for tea, then poked through the cabinets for something to eat. This was difficult; the cabinets were nearly as bare as his own. His dad, standing in the kitchen doorway, only looked a little apologetic when Quentin grabbed a nearly-empty jar of peanut butter and frowned back over his shoulder. 

“Whatever your mom said––”

“She said you fell.”

“I didn’t _fall_.” Ted Coldwater frowned deeply and limped to sit in one of the rickety wooden chairs at the table. “I tripped.”

“Dad––”

“I’m alright, Curly Q.”

All that was left of the bread on the counter were the end bits, so he made himself a dry, chewy peanut butter sandwich and sat across the table from his dad, who looked grey in the buzzing kitchen lights, face drawn. He met Quentin’s assessing gaze with an equal stubbornness, and then his expression softened into something approximating embarrassment. “Really. I just tripped and caught the coffee table on the way down.”

The sandwich was tasteless in his mouth, and hard to swallow. His hands shook. “I don’t like you being here alone,” he said.

“I’ve talked to the doctors, Curly Q. We’re doing everything we can.”

“I know, it’s just–– I don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“I wish I could help.” Hot tears prickled at his eyes, and he squeezed them away. On the stove the kettle hissed, then whistled, and Quentin stood up too fast to turn it off, taking deep, silent breaths while his back was turned. He made tea on autopilot, grateful to have something to do with his hands.

Ted accepted his mug silently and set it down, elbows braced on the table in front of him. Quentin stared bleakly and finished his sandwich.

“I’m going into rehearsals,” he said quietly into the silence. Ted’s face took on some life.

“Oh, yeah? When do they start?”

“Today, actually. It’s going to be about three, four months.”

“That’s long, isn’t it?”

Quentin shrugged. “Lots of productions get workshopped for years before they go anywhere. This is… honestly pretty short, in comparison.”

“This is the, uh, whatchamacallit, Brakebills program, right?”

They had discussed it already. More than once, in fact, but like other details––when Julia was coming over to visit, the name of that new restaurant down the road Quentin had taken him to for his last birthday, what channel the procedural he liked was on––it had slipped. Quentin’s stomach swooped the way it always did when these little gaps in memory bubbled up, and he regretted his sandwich.

He swallowed. “Yeah, Dad.”

Ted nodded. “I remember taking you to see that show. What was it?”

“Fillory. That… the musical by Christopher Plover.”

“Right, yeah. You know, I thought it was a children’s play. A, a fantasy thing like, I don’t know, King Arthur.”

“Well,” Quentin said, and it hung in the air until they both burst out laughing.

“It was very, uh,” said Quentin. “Formative?”

“Your mother wouldn’t talk to me for a week.”

“It’s not like it was that bad. I mean, it _was_ a kids show. I don’t think I was old enough to appreciate the, uh, _layers_ until I was older.”

Ted huffed. “If it got you into something you love, I don’t regret it.” He looked amused, just around his eyes. It crowded out the greyness in his face, and it helped ease Quentin’s worry, just a little. 

“You’re really okay?”

“I’m fine. You didn’t have to come all the way down here.”

“It wasn’t any trouble.”

“Well, since you’re here you might as well stay the night.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Before you got here.” Ted stretched. “And there’s leftover Thai in the back of the fridge, if you’re still hungry.”

“I’m alright.”

His dad’s expression made it clear exactly how little he believed that, but he shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m going to bed.”

“Do you need help?”

“I’m not an invalid yet,” Ted groused. He stood, and stretched some more––something popped in his back that made Quentin wince––and limped his way around the table to put a hand on Quentin’s shoulder.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, and Quentin’s eyes went unexpectedly hot.

“For what?”

“Going after what you want. You said they’re gonna put on your play, right?”

“Yeah.” His mouth twisted into something that struggled to be a smile. “Right where we saw Plover’s show.”

Ted nodded. “Good. I can’t wait to see it.”

Quentin set his hand on top of his dad’s. “Me neither,” he said, tight and watery. Ted squeezed his shoulder once, and limped his way out of the kitchen, through the living room, and to his bed.

Quentin, for his part, sat at the table with the crumbs of his sandwich and his cold tea and put his head in his hands.

* * *

He was a mess at the workshop on Tuesday.

He didn’t mean to be, really, and he knew he was making things more difficult for everyone around him which only made him feel worse, but it was–– hard to get the words out, to meet anyone’s eyes. It wasn’t even like anything was _new_ with his dad’s health it was just––

_I can’t wait to see it._

Three months was such a long time. There was no way to _know._

So. He was bit of a mess.

Alice, who knew him well and didn’t deserve this, took charge with a terrifying efficiency. It wasn’t like Quentin was _gone_ , anyway; he was perfectly present. He just. Couldn’t really seem to string a sentence together. 

Afterwards he sat listlessly at the table. Eliza drifted past and told him she truly admired the text and looked forward to digging into it, which was nice of her, and he stumbled through a _thank you_.

Then Eliot appeared out of nowhere and said, “Let’s get food.”

And Quentin hadn’t been able to mount an argument, so. They got food.

Eliot half-led, half-steered him to a cozy little café-slash-bistro within walking distance, and when they arrived Quentin was distantly surprised to find Margo there. She waved them down.

“I ordered for you, El,” she said. “And didn’t know what to get him, so I got him the same. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?”

Quentin shook his head. Margo looked to Eliot, and something passed between them that Quentin was too tired to try to decipher. Eliot, for his part, just kissed her cheek.

“Thanks, Bambi.”

“Mmm.”

Eliot and Margo talked until their food arrived, and then talked some more. Quentin ate mechanically. The fries were really good, actually. Now and then Margo or Eliot would address a question to him, and he replied in one word answers, and then bursts of sentence fragments as some of the fog cleared. Not all of it, but. Enough.

He realized around the time Margo ordered them one of those brownies that came with ice cream––Quentin ended up eating most of it and only felt a little bad––what they were doing, and he went hot with a mix of gratitude and shame.

“Thanks,” he muttered to Eliot as they collected their coats and bags. Eliot started, guilty almost, and tried to brush it off.

“For what?”

“Y’know. This.

Eliot considered him for a moment. “If you want to talk––”

“No, it’s okay,” Quentin said, and Eliot was clearly relieved to hear it, which made him smile, almost. Would have made him smile, if he had been up for it. “It’s just. Stuff.”

“Okay. Are you––” To his credit, he didn’t ask if Quentin was okay. His mouth quirked. “Are you good to get home?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry about me.”

“I can worry about whoever I want,” Eliot replied, which made Quentin go warm all over in a way he didn’t care to consider too carefully, and then Margo sailed back from the bathroom and looped her hand through Eliot’s arm, and that was the end of the conversation. They threaded their way out of the restaurant.

“This was surprisingly fun,” Margo said once they were outside. Quentin went fishing for his metro pass. “Maybe we’ll do it again.”

When Quentin looked up, he was a little surprised to find not a single trace of guile across his face. “Well,” he said, strangely warm, “we’re like, right here, so––”

Margo hummed. “You’re not half bad, Coldwater.” She kissed his cold cheek and scrubbed away the mark her lipstick left behind with her thumb. “See ya.”

Then they were gone, leaving Quentin unexpectedly buoyed and a little confused about it as people excused themselves past him on the sidewalk, untouched by the wash of the crowd.

* * *

“What I don’t get,” said Quentin, chin propped up on one hand as he watched Margo thread back through the same bistro on a busy afternoon a week later, “is who’s going to direct.”

Eliot turned to him with a frown. On Eliot’s other side, Fen grimaced. “You–– Wait, what?”

Quentin shrugged a little, embarrassed that he didn’t know, and that it had taken him so long to bring it up. “I mean, you said it would be the in-house director but I don’t know who––”

“Quentin.”

Quentin paused. Eliot looked–– pained, almost.

“What?”

“It’s–– I can’t believe no one mentioned––”

“Okay, you’re starting to freak me out.”

“It’s really not that bad,” Fen said, but her face was doing that wincing, gentle thing it did when she was trying to soften a blow, so––

“What’s this?” Margo asked, breaking through the crowd to drop down into the open chair. “Eliot, you look like someone stepped on your cat. What did you do to Fen?”

“Q doesn’t know who’s directing, Bambi.”

“Oh, shit.” Margo leaned forward, exchanging a glance with Eliot. There was a question passed between them, clearly, but Quentin hadn’t the foggiest idea what it was, nor what the answer might be. Fen met his eyes around them and gave a little shrug of apology, which did nothing to help. Across the table, Margo and Eliot’s silent conversation ended. Eliot cleared his throat and they all turned towards Quentin.

“Q,” Eliot said carefully, overly casual. “You’ve heard of Misha Mayakovsky, right?”

“The… crazy Russian guy who barricaded himself in the theatre for six months after...?”

“After the Greenstreet incident?” Margo nodded. Next to her, Eliot made an expression that suggested it had been worse than it sounded. Fen winced again. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“That–– Oh.”

Margo nodded. “Mhm”

“He’s––”

“Yeah,” Eliot confirmed.

“Oh,” said Quentin in sudden, brutal understanding. “Shit.”

“Maybe… drinks?” Fen suggested.

They bought drinks.

Alice joined them halfway through the second round, looking about as near miserable as Quentin had ever seen her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why did no one tell me Mayakovsky was directing?” she asked. Her eyes landed on Quentin’s glass. “Are you going to finish that?”

Without waiting for his answer she downed it, coughed, and put her head on the table. Eliot patted her shoulder, saying, “There there.”

“Hey,” Quentin said with far more optimism than he felt. “C’mon. We’ll all get through this. It can’t be that bad. Can it?”

Four miserable faced turned back to him, and he wished suddenly Alice hadn’t finished his drink.

“Fuck.”


	3. Chapter 3

Low as Quentin’s expectations might have been, the reality was far, far worse. It was that bad.

It was that bad at auditions and at the table read, and that bad as they moved on to blocking, and that bad when Quentin rewrote the majority of act two and they had to block it again. It was _especially_ that bad at the first roundtable, and every Tuesday and Thursday night––and every other Saturday morning––when the core creative team––being Quentin, Alice, often Eliza, and the infamous Misha Mayakovsky himself––sat together and really dug into the text, and what story they were telling, and why, and how.

Quite simply, Mayakovsky thought Quentin was an idiot whose promising start of a play didn’t excuse him from the unpardonable crime of being mediocre. And Quentin thought Mayakovsky was an unwashed, bitter drunkard of a has-been director whose talent didn’t excuse his cruelty.

Neither of them was entirely wrong, but neither of them was entirely right either, and this made working with each other both a horrendous torture and an unparalleled opportunity for growth, and they both resented it.

It was, in short, a nightmare.

“Maybe he’s right,” said Quentin one evening at least an hour after rehearsal had wrapped, when he and Eliot were the last people in the building because Fen had somewhere to be and someone had to lock up.

Eliot looked up from a nearly incomprehensible email about rights for the fall show––Henry had yet to settle on one and it was becoming kind of a problem––to find Quentin perched in his chair with his knees drawn up. He had his elbows braced on his knees, arms folded, and his head tipped up to stare at the ceiling. He looked not unlike a human pretzel folded around himself, and he looked kind of miserable, actually.

“What?”

“Maybe Mayakovsky is right. It’s pointless.”

Eliot frowned at him. Unsure of what to say, he went with the first thing that came to mind, which turned out to be the truth.

“It’s not,” he said. He closed his laptop––the email would wait, and he didn’t want to deal with it anyway––and looked to Quentin. Quentin, folded up in his chair, didn’t budge, so Eliot sat up straighter and insisted, “Q, it’s not.”

“I don’t know, El.” He looked around the room like he was searching for something. An answer maybe, or an exit. His eyes returned repeatedly to Eliot’s face, then slid away again, like even the looking was too much. His mouth twisted this way and that, and Eliot’s stomach with it, and in that moment he kind of personally hated Misha Mayakovsky for putting words to the shit Quentin thought about already.

Eliot understood, sort of, vaguely, that Quentin was... not always alright. Not just because he was a high-strung, awkward, anxious nerd, but because he got... dark, sometimes. Like the city in winter, cold and hollow and emptied out, like everything that was bright and alive just–– left. He'd seen it when Quentin had come back from visiting his dad withdrawn and silent, and Alice had dragged Eliot aside and explained in clipped sentences that this happened sometimes and it wasn't his fault and he might need help, and Eliot had––

Had said, "Okay," and taken Quentin to dinner with Margo, and they had talked around him until he warmed enough to offer his own stilted, stuttering commentary, and Eliot hadn't know where to put his relief.

Quentin shrugged a little. He picked at the edge of his sleeve, and then seemed to realize he was doing it and stopped. “I mean, who cares?”

 _Me_ , he thought fiercely, and he surprised himself with the force of it. He wet his lips, tried to juggle that with a better answer, a real answer. Quentin, staring at him, raised his eyebrows, _You see?_

Which was unfair, and untrue, so––

“There’s Henry, for one,” he said, like he was ticking them off a list. “Alice strikes me as the ‘finish it or die trying’ type. Fen, of course. Margo, but you _cannot_ told her I told you.”

Quentin’s mouth twitched like it was trying for a smile, or willing at least to meet one halfway. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And the actors auditioned to be in it, so–– I mean, we know they have questionable taste at best, but––”

“We should trust their judgement?”

It was the same relief he had felt at the restaurant, that Quentin was playing along. Eliot nodded. “I heard Mike telling Josh it’s the best thing he’s done since Spring Awakening.”

“There’s literally no way Mike could have been in Spring Awakening.”

“Oh ye of little faith.”

Quentin shook his head. Doubt slid across his face, sickly and cloying, but he only sighed and said, “Yeah, okay. I get the point.”

“Just saying. We’re not all drunk Russian dicks.

Quentin laughed, and then he went quiet. “I mean… he’s not… completely wrong.”

“Q––”

“No, like. He’s definitely a dick but he’s. He’s got some good points.” He made a face like sucking on a lemon. “God. I can’t believe I admitted that.”

Eliot couldn’t either, but that was why Q was a better man than him. Quentin huffed and unwound some, sitting cross-legged in his chair, feet tucked under his thighs. Eliot pressed a finger to his lips, considering, wondering if pushing further would hurt or help.

Help, he thought, or hoped maybe, and tucked away in the warm silence of the basement rehearsal hall he followed that hope. Like Alice after the rabbit, he thought a little wildly, and ran the pad of his finger across his lips, too preoccupied to notice the way Quentin’s eyes followed it.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ve got a question for you. Don’t laugh.”

“Not a promising start.”

Eliot ignored him. “You’ve done work before.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Like, publicly performed.”

“Yeah, I’m not completely new to this, thanks.”

A flash of fondness swept through him at Quentin’s hot irritation, which was–– probably the wrong reaction but he couldn’t really help it. He bit down on a smile. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he promised, and Q’s expression didn’t shift much but he let Eliot press on. “I just meant… How has no one heard of you yet?”

Quentin stared at him for a long minute, and then his lip quirked. He didn’t laugh. “I don’t know about you, but in my experience most people aren’t looking for impossible fantasies. They want… I dunno. Something real.”

“This is real,” Eliot returned, almost automatic. His hand splayed across the table between them, fierce protectiveness surging through his chest again. How could anyone read something Q had written, had touched, and not understand that truth bled through each and every word?

“I mean,” he added, backtracking, face twisting into a modicum of his usual airy carelessness, “the community at large can’t be _that_ pretentious.”

“Have you seen the community at large?” Quentin returned, but pink spots bloomed high up on his cheeks in a way that satisfied the roaring insistence that Q’s work deserved to be seen by the world. “But I, um. Appreciate it.”

“Mayakovsky may have some good points but you do too so don’t, you know. Get buried in it.”

It hung in the air between them. Quentin’s face went very gentle and very soft, and Eliot immediately felt as though he’d said too much and didn’t know how to take any of it back. It was an unpleasant feeling, except that it was coupled with Quentin’s face going sweet and soft, and sheepishly proud too, which. Maybe the discomfort wasn’t too high a price to pay, if it meant seeing this.

“Thanks, Eliot,” he said. Eliot–– hummed, because he didn’t know what to say, because he was afraid of what else he might say, but Quentin only smiled, and pulled his laptop closer and went back to work, so it was. Not bad.

Eliot opened his computer again, clicking blindly through pages, too keyed up to do anything productive, and when twenty minutes later Quentin said, “Okay, sorry, sorry, I’m done,” he went through the process of locking up on autopilot, and lingered at the stage door long after the tails of Quentin’s coat turned the corner and disappeared.

* * *

So then maybe it was sort of, kind of, just a little bit Eliot’s fault when Q finally snapped.

Though––as they all agreed later––he had it coming. He had it coming all along.

“I do not understand,” interrupted Quentin, finally, after one particularly grueling Saturday morning roundtable where Mayakovsky had insulted, in short order, their lead’s acting skills (merited), Plum’s memory (unmerited), the entire fourth act (fair, but it still wasn’t as bad as the third, actually), Quentin’s dedication to art in general (jury was out, but it hit close to home), and Rafe’s dog (the last straw), “why you are _such_ a dick.”

Mayakovsky’s face lit up. After weeks of poking, pricking, prodding, and wearing away any shreds of good will he had with the company, he finally had a reaction, and he dug in.

Watching it happen, for those around, was a little like watching a train wreck happening before one’s eyes. They were helpless to do anything but observe with twin horror and fascination. Bets, weeks in the making, were about to be won and lost.

“Oh, a _dick_.” Mayakovsky simpered. “Did I hurt your _feelings_?”

“We’re trying to work here,” Quentin pressed on, teeth grit. “Surely you cannot want to piss off every person in this room more than you want to do your job.”

“Do my job? I _do_ my job. You, you go around fucking it all up, trying to be a big writer when you are like this, just shit. You are nobody, making nothing, and you give it to me and ask me to work! I am working. It is not my fault I have nothing to work with.”

A vein stood out in Quentin’s jaw, which was clenched tight as it could go and then some. When he spoke it was like gravel scraping, and the company as a whole leaned back slightly. “Maybe if you would stop blaming other people for your own ineptitude––”

“You cannot even handle the truth,” Mayakovsky scoffed. “I tell you, you are… nothing! Mediocre! You write like a child, like you are just learning to use words. There is nothing special here. You––”

Quentin stood up. Mayakovsky stuttered for a heartbeat, and then he stood too. He looked thrilled, and then uncertain, and then doubled down on being thrilled. He was clearly more drunk than sober, and he laughed. The company present watched like one might watch a cage match, with bated breath and unwilling excitement at the promise of bloodshed. Such an outcome was not altogether out of the question.

Mayakovsky grinned. “What? You are going to, what, hit me?”

“Okay,” said Quentin firmly. “Enough. You have _got_ to stop.”

Mayakovsky did not stop. He said, “Go on. Do it, I dare you to do it.”

Quentin stared at him, expression hard. Shrugged. And, just as Mayakovsky opened his mouth again––

Punched him.

It didn’t connect particularly hard, but clearly Mayakovsky didn’t expect Quentin to rise to the occasion, or maybe to sink to his level. He stumbled back into his chair, feet coming up off the ground, and he stared up at Quentin with something that might have been admiration. One hand rose slowly to his face.

“You do have balls,” he said, almost surprised. Quentin stared down at him, flexing his hand with a wince. Off to the side, Fen passed a beaming Plum a crisp green bill. Eliot’s eyes had gone slightly glassy. Alice put her head in her hands.

“I may not be the genius playwright you _so_ desperately want to jerk off to,” Quentin said as eyebrows shot up around the room. Even Mayakovsky’s twitched. “But I’m here. I’m doing the fucking work, I’m learning, I’m trying. Not getting piss drunk on the job at––” he checked his watch–– “eleven in the morning.”

“I am not piss drunk,” Mayakovsky protested. Quentin’s face folded up into something small and tight and angry.

“I am _trying_ ,” he repeated hotly. “So you can too, instead of doing fucking _nothing_.”

He grabbed his bag, and his coat, and stalked out of the rehearsal hall, and then out of the building altogether, leaving the rest of the company to stare after him in various stages of shock, awe, and disbelief.

"You know what," said Fen. "Maybe we should break for lunch.

Alice found him, eventually.

He nursed a coffee at a café three blocks down, because he’d made it two and a half in a blind rage before reality filtered back in and he had promptly ducked into the first place he’d seen. It was a tourist trap of a coffee shop, the sort with Broadway paraphernalia up on the walls where a coffee ran into the double digits. He paid for his overpriced coffee and dug himself into a corner table and… well, sulked. There wasn’t really a kinder way to put it, and he wouldn’t have wanted one anyway.

This was where Alice found him. He looked up when she entered, and his face cycled through half a dozen emotions in the space of a second before it landed on resignation. She pinned him with a frown and bullied her way past a family wearing matching Lion King shirts to sit in front of him.

He sighed.

“How bad is it?”

“We called it for the day. Henry sounded like he would happily lock the two of you in a room and let you fight it out. Plum is singing your praises to anyone who will listen, I think the company might be just a little bit in love, and I can’t decide if I want to kiss you or strangle you.”

“I’d prefer the kiss.”

“I’m sure you would.” She was stone-carved, stiff and unyielding. Quentin sunk a little deeper in his chair.

“In my defense,” he tried, “he literally asked me to.”

“ _Jesus_ , Quentin.”

He pressed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. Stars sprang to life against the dark of his eyelids. “I know.”

“You can’t just go around punching your director because you feel like it.”

“I _know_ ” He put his hands down and added, sullen, “He’s not my director.”

“He is right now, so if you could just… pull your head out of your ass and work with him we’d all appreciate it.”

This was unfair. “You don’t even like him.”

“No, but I’m willing to put up with him so we can put on a play. Your play, Q. In case you forgot.”

Quentin stared at her. She looked away briefly, then set her mouth and doubled down on her stance.

You could give her this: Alice Quinn, when she knew what she wanted, made sure she got it.

“He should apologize to me,” Quentin muttered. And then, before Alice could argue further: “Yeah, I know, I hit him. I’ll say sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said. She didn’t add _Was that so hard?_ but it was clearly implied. Quentin scowled.

“Do I have to do it now?”

She sighed, long and heavy, and her shoulders loosened. “No,” she said. “It really was fucked up what he said about the dog.”

Quentin raised both eyebrows but wisely kept his mouth shut. Alice bought a coffee and a slice of cake, and they ate it together. Afterwards Quentin felt a little better, though still not in the slightest bit sorry.

“I just don’t understand,” he muttered to the bottom of his coffee cup. The sun had begun to slip lower in the sky and a clear, bright patch of winter light pierced the window. Outside the bare trees shivered in the wind. Alice speared the last few crumbs of cake, then ran a thumb along the side of the plate to scoop up the last of the icing.

“What don’t you understand, Q?” she asked with exaggerated patience. Quentin sighed.

“Why is he so… I don’t know. Why’s he such an asshole about all of it, if he cares so much?”

Alice hummed, and popped the last of the icing in her mouth. “Maybe he’s an asshole because he cares so much.”

“That’s bullshit. He shouldn’t get a pass just because his heart’s in the right place.”

“Probably not,” Alice agreed. “But we still have to work with him.”

Quentin sighed. “Yeah.” He eyed the dregs of his coffee and gulped it down. It was cold, and there were grounds in it, which about summed up how he felt about everything right now. He made a face. “Fine. Where is he?”

He was still at the theatre, in the green room. He looked miserable, Quentin thought with a spike of bitter satisfaction, and miserably out of place, and he winced when Quentin turned the lights on, peering blearily in his direction  His mouth curled, a halfhearted grimace. He didn’t entirely seem to have it in him. There was a cold pack sitting over one eye, and it fell into his lap in a slow, wet slide as he sat up.

“Oh,” he said sourly. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Quentin agreed. He stared at Mayakovsky. Mayakovsky stared at him.

God. Well. Someone had to be the bigger man. So he crossed his arms firmly across his chest and took a deep breath and said, with as much honesty as he could, “Sorry. For, y’know. Punching you.”

Mayakovsky snorted. “You hit like a girl.”

Quentin, who had been hit by a girl––Alice, in fact; they’d worked through it––carefully navigated past the sudden, inexplicable desire to put his head through the nearest wall and settled for raising his eyebrows with as much _really you sexist asshole_ energy as he could muster.

It was a lot. Penny would have been proud.

Mayakovsky weathered it for a minute, then rolled his eyes and held out his bottle in some strange, convoluted invitation.

Quentin eyed him for a moment and––fuck it––accepted.

“I don’t like you,” Mayakovsky said.

“The feeling is mutual,” Quentin assured him, sitting on the other end of the couch. He took a swig from the bottle and nearly coughed it back up. It was _foul._

“I do not like you, but I have to work with you, so.”

“So.”

They eyed each other for a long time. They were each plenty aware of the other’s defaults. Quentin, who was rather used to other people being plenty aware of his defaults, was almost, for a moment, weirdly grateful that Mayakovsky was so open about it. Obviously it massively sucked and made his life a nightmare, but. There was something to be said about someone who would just call you a limp dick to you face when you were being a complete disaster.

This was why he still lived with Penny, after two years of insult-based… Well, Quentin would term it a friendship, but only when drunk. A state he was moving towards rather quickly at the moment.

“Listen,” said Quentin. “Obviously I don’t need to like you. And you don’t need to like me. But––” God what was in this stuff; his head was swimming. “But we have to work together, okay? We just have to.” He took another drink for good measure, and passed the bottle back to Mayakovsky.

Mayakovsky stared at the bottle for a long minute, then up at Quentin. His eyes were red and beady, and Quentin was–– sorry for him, just a little. He couldn’t imagine it, being so miserable. He was plenty miserable, sometimes, but he also–– Well. He hadn’t been wrong. He was _trying._ That counted for something. In his experience, that counted for a lot.

“Quentin,” said Mayakovsky. He took the bottle. “Why the fuck are you doing this?”

“Drinking with you at three pm?”

“Yes.” He frowned. “No. I mean–– Your stupid fucking play about. Magic. Why do it at all?”

“Are you–– Are you _seriously_ asking me like, why theatre?”

“ _Da_.”

Quentin wasn’t drunk enough for this and was fairly sure he never would be. He grabbed the bottle back again, despite Mayakovsky’s protests, and took a long pull before answering.

“It matters to me.”

Mayakovsky stares at him. “That is it?”

“Yeah. It’s–– I want to do it, right? I like. Really like it, even when it sucks, even when I have to work with people like––” The _you_ went unsaid. Quentin balanced the bottle on his knee, holding it by the neck. “It matters to me. I want to make it work.” And he was working on that, on doing what he wanted, on following through, on being–– On figuring out how to be someone he didn’t hate, right? So. This was a big deal. Even if it was mediocre, even if it was shit, even if nobody else fucking cared.

It just. Made sense.

Mayakovsky was staring at him, sort of pitying and sort of–– something else, something Quentin couldn’t figure out. He took the bottle back. Quentin didn’t argue, didn’t say anything as he drank, and drank, and–– Jesus was he okay? Holy shit.

He dropped the––empty––bottle onto the couch. He looked up at Quentin. His eyes were still red and beady, and one of them had a bruise blooming around it, all purple and green.

“You,” he said, “are an idiot. But.” He burped, loud and disgusting. Quentin gagged. “Okay.”

“I–– What?”

“Okay,” he shrugged. “Fine. You want to do your little play, we will do your play. But I am still here to make it better. We will not be friends.”

“Thank God for that,” Quentin muttered. Then, “Great. Fine, sure. Can you just. Stop terrorizing everyone, please? And maybe like, pitch in once in a blue moon.”

“I guess.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

And––because this was the sort of day he was having, apparently––he reached out a hand. Mayakovsky stared at it in confusion, then understood. He made a face, the kind that said _I think you are the tiniest, stupidest speck of dirt I have ever come across._ It was a face he made pretty often.

But he shook on it, so. Thank God for minor miracles.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” Quentin told him, and lurched for the door. The room spun around him more than he would have liked.

“Hey,” Mayakovsky said as he braced himself in the doorway, trying to get his bearings. Quentin turned back to look at him. “You have balls. Use them.”

And then he tipped himself backwards on the couch and laughed uproariously at his own joke, meaning he missed Quentin giving him the finger. Given the tenuous nature of their peace that may have been just as well.

* * *

On Monday, Eliot arrived early with Fen, coffee, and a private worry about what exactly they would be walking into. He wasn’t the only one––everyone hummed and muttered and waited in anticipation, even the people who had only heard about the fight secondhand, and the longer they went without seeing Quentin or Mayakovsky, the worse it became.

“Maybe they murdered each other,” suggested Plum.

“They better not have,” Alice returned with the air of someone who knew more than they were saying. Eliot, who had a nose for exactly that sort of thing and a curiosity to rival it, sidled up to her. She quelled him with a single, sharp scowl. He raised both eyebrows back at her.

Was it overkill, he wondered, to play the associate director card?

Before he could decide one way or the other, Quentin arrived. He looked exhausted, but that wasn’t a surprise; he always looked a little like he’d been hit by a bus first thing Monday morning. As one the company turned to him, the same question painted across a dozen or more faces. He winced a little and hurried to his seat, head ducked low as though the hair falling in his face would dissuade everyone from looking at him.

Eliot hesitated. His worry warred with the possibility that Quentin didn’t want to talk about it, and he should take Alice’s unspoken advice and leave it alone.

Plum had no such compunctions. She greeted Q with her customary “Cream or sugar?” and Q––who took neither––accepted the black coffee she had ready for him. It was sweet, their little dance. Plum very clearly thought she was taking Quentin under her wing, while Quentin thought he was doing the same for her, and the outcome was an odd back-and-forth of haphazard mothering.

There was something like a tableau to all of it: the company watching sharp-eyed and unwilling to make the first move, Quentin unhappily in the spotlight, Eliot halfway arguing with Alice, Plum’s easy company, and Mayakovsky entering onto the scene with purpose.

He had the faintest shadow of a black eye, and he smiled a wolfish grin when the room’s attention swung away from Quentin to land on him. Quentin froze, coffee halfway to his mouth, and–– nodded at him.

And Mayakovsky, of all things, nodded back. 

 _Well_ , thought Eliot in faint shock. _What do you know. Miracles do happen._

So he rolled out his shoulders and tucked away all his worries and looked at Q––whose expression softened to a smile when he caught Eliot staring, tired around the edges, and warm, and a little relieved too which would be something to follow up on later, maybe––and settled in for the day.

Rehearsal that Monday ran smoothly, more so than it had to date. They worked through four scenes, and Quentin broke off with a sharp, “Oh of _course_!” around mid-afternoon, followed by a rapid back-and-forth with Alice that only the two of them seemed to follow. At the end of the day Mike ran the monologue at the end of Act II, when the Magician was barred from entering the world he so desperately wanted to see, and even Eliot found himself misty-eyed. Quentin, two chairs down from him, was silently, opening crying.

“Thank you,” Eliot overheard him saying as they broke for the day, and Mike laughed.

“Why are you thanking me? Thank _you_.”

The room cleared. Eventually he was left with only Alice, Quentin and Fen. Playwright and dramaturg were deep in a discussion about–– something that escaped Eliot, which left him to talk to Fen.

“Do you want me to stay?” she asked, tentative. Eliot stared at the two heads bent close, one light and one dark, and shook his head.

“I’ll lock up. You should go home. Get some rest. You’ve been kicking ass.”

Fen smiled, not her usual beaming, but a softer, measured little thing. “You should too, and you have too. Been kicking ass, I mean. And should get some rest.”

“I will,” Eliot assured her. He kissed her cheek. “You’re a star.”

“Thanks, Eliot.” She squeezed him into a hug, tight and warm and brief, and then it was just Eliot and the nerds.

He folded himself up on one of the couches and skimmed through his phone until Quinn bid her farewells. Quentin, buried in his work, barely seemed to notice. Eliot lowered his phone, watching him. He’d drawn his knees up, perching on the balls of his feet like some large, ungainly bird. Eliot pressed his lips down tight around a smile that was altogether too fond.

“You’re looking happy.”

“Good weekend,” Quentin replied, preoccupied with whatever was on his computer. A yellow legal pad covered in his illegible scrawl sat at his elbow, and he kept glancing down at then back at the screen. Eliot raised both eyebrows.

“You punched your director.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agreed distractedly. “Good weekend.”

It was clearly all he was going to get from him at the moment, so Eliot flipped open his laptop and poked through his email backlog. He opened a text from Margo that was nothing but a long row of eggplant emojis. He scrolled through instagram, and returned a call to Irene about his fall schedule. He ignored an email about auditions for the NYTW’s upcoming season.

It hit eight. Nine. Half past. Quentin worked tirelessly through it all, washed out in the bluish glow of the screen, tired and wan. Was he eating enough? Probably not. From Eliot’s understanding, _Quentin_ was pretty far down on the list of things Quentin made an effort to care for.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

Quentin’s eyes flickered in his direction, then he went back to the screen. “I’ll be done in a bit. You don’t have to wait up for me.”

“I can order something.”

“You really don’t have to––”

“Because _I’m_ hungry, and I can’t lock up until you’re done, so…”

The typing stopped. “Shit,” muttered Q, head snapping up to look at him. “Sorry, I didn’t––”

“It’s fine,” Eliot replied with a perfectly-measured careless shrug. Quentin was still looking at him, though. His face was all lines, around his mouth and between his brows and at the corners of his eyes; just a little pressure at just the right spot and they’d all collapse. He’d fold in on himself and vanish.

Eliot wanted to reach out and smooth them away. Eliot wanted to brace him upright, wrap him up to keep him from falling apart. Eliot wanted––

He swept the thought away. He asked, “Greek or Chinese?”

“Uh, Chinese,” said Quentin, because he had absolutely no taste. But he said it with a slight, precious edge of a smile before he turned back to his computer, so. 

Eliot ordered them Chinese.

Quentin scarfed his down without paying attention, like he didn’t even notice the food, like he was only eating it because it was there. Eliot watched him eat, oddly relieved to help in this way, to make sure not everything in Q’s life was exhaustion and effort.

It was a good feeling. A little strange, but good.

Eliot ate slowly. He sent off a few emails. He reminded Henry about the meeting he had Friday morning that he absolutely could not skip because Eliot was already doing his job at the workshop and Eliot personally would personally ensure that someone routed all incoming company mail to Henry’s inbox if he skipped it. He watched Q.

Late nights at the theatre were hardly new to him. He’d had his share in high school, when it had been an excuse to avoid going home, and even more in college, when he’d thought for a brief, foolish moment that he would grow up to be an actor, make it big, change lives, all that bullshit. But these days, when his work was with money and people and soothing egos and coaxing donations from tight-fisted old shrews who wouldn’t know good art if they were choking on it, late nights at the theatre were the purview of other, lesser men. People like Todd, who existed to take the unpleasant tasks.

Now, though, he found himself not minding the lateness. Found himself looking for a reason to stay, because the last person out the door always, no matter what, was Q. Q who rarely went out for drinks with the rest of the company; Q who worked hours that put the rest of them to shame, who cared about this show and its people like no one else. Eliot barely saw him amidst the chaos of the workshop, and he was selfish. He wanted Quentin’s time.

(If he were being honest with himself he would admit that it was not exactly Quentin’s _time_ that he wanted. As he was not in the habit of being honest with himself, especially not when it came to such an enormous, frightening thing as wanting someone in their entirety, time and attention and dumb jokes and hope and determination and everything in between, he did not admit this, and instead continued on in stubborn, willful ignorance.)

“Sorry,” said Q suddenly. “I’m almost done.”

“What are you working on, anyway?”

Quentin deadpanned. “The play.”

“Hilarious.”

He smiled in a way that suggested _he_ thought so, even if Eliot disagreed, and then whatever he was about to say got cut off by a jaw-popping yawn. This was good timing, because Eliot stupid, soft, wanting heart had skipped a beat, and he desperately hoped that Quentin, eyes screwed shut and mouth open wide, had not noticed the echo of it across his face.

Q shook himself, and scrubbed his hands across his eyes, momentarily sheepish. Eliot wrestled himself back under some semblance of fucking control.

“It’s something Mayakovsky said,” Q relented. “About the nightmare in act one. He’s… well, he’s right, dream sequences are cheap, and flashbacks are generally kind of…” He waved a hand in a _so-so_ gesture. “But he’s wrong about cutting it. It’s not about keeping it in the moment, it’s about how the past informs the present, right? So it has to, y’know, reorient the audience. Which means moving it later.”

Eliot nodded slowly. “Reframing, not framing.”

Quentin nodded along with that enthusiastic, wide-eyed smile he got when digging into play analysis and the sort of thing Eliot had mostly slept through in school. It was obnoxiously endearing. “Exactly. We’re taking what they think they know and forcing them to reevaluate, just like the Magician’s reevaluating what he’s looking for and how he’s getting there. It means restructuring most of one and three, but three’s a mess anyways and I haven’t been sleeping that well, so.”

There was the sheepish look again, and he turned back to his keyboard before Eliot could press him on that, if Eliot were to press him on that, which he was–– not, even though it tugged at something in his chest that he would probably term his heartstrings, if he were the kind of person who had heartstrings to be tugged. Instead he grit his teeth and kept his worry to himself and wondered if he should text someone. Plum, maybe; she liked looking out for him; she would check in and report back.

Hm. It bore consideration.

What also bore consideration was: “Are things... okay now? With you and Mayakovsky?”

Quentin’s fingers slowed on the keyboard, tapping fading away to nothing. He took a deep breath and shrugged with one shoulder. “They’re better.”

“Are you sure? Because I can–– Hm.” He wasn't altogether certain. Mayakovsky had a roughly million year long contract with Brakebills, so they were sort of stuck with him, but Eliot would do something, definitely. Throw out all his vodka, or mysteriously misplace a paycheck or six. He'd make it work. He could be _very_ petty when he put his mind to it.

But Quentin was already shaking his head. "It's alright, Eliot, really. We talked after I, uh. Y’know. Punched him."

"You sure did," Eliot agreed. Quentin winced a smiled.

“Honestly that might have helped too.”

“It definitely helped me.”

His face made an expression then that Eliot wanted to call grateful, which was ridiculous; Quentin needn’t be grateful, certainly not to _him_. It was Eliot and the rest who owed Quentin their gratitude, and for far more than laying into Mayakovsky. "He's just. A pain, y'know?"

"I mean it. If you want me to take care of him..."

"You make it sound like the mob's going to take out a hit."

Now there was an idea. "No promises."

Quentin laughed. “It's fine. Anyways, clearly things are going better, so.”

“Offer stands.”

Quentin tilted his chin up, fragile secret of a smile curling across his face. “Thanks, Eliot.”

Eliot’s insides did a strange, sparking, shuddery thing, a thing that made him want to reach across the table and touch Q. To offer him something tactile, clear, measured. He wanted to tuck the lock of hair perpetually dangling in his eyes behind one ear, or smooth the furrow between his brows, or press a sweet-small kiss to the corner of his mouth. The intensity of it swamped him; he held onto his reason and composure with his fingertips, dug in and fought to shrug casually instead of doing something he would regret.

Still, his voice was weak when he managed to scrape together a reply. “Margo would certainly be up to it no matter what.”

Quentin, oblivious to the struggle, laughed. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Me too,” Eliot returned, and when Quentin went back to work the only thought rattling through his brain was a steady beat of _you’re fucked you’re fucked you’re fucked_.

* * *

So he did the only thing he could think to do: He took it to Margo.

“Bambi,” he said, lounging on their couch with a glass of wine in his hand long after dinner, “it’s bad.”

Margo, stage makeup still thick around her eyes, which did wonderful things to her lashes and also made the soft doe look even more pronounced, replied, “Eliot, I love you but you’re an idiot.”

It was harsher, kind of, because of the doe eyes. Eliot appreciated that.

He groaned and sat up, because this was the sort of conversation he wanted––well, no, he did _not_ want, but clearly he needed an intervention and if anyone was in a place to provide a come-to-Jesus moment it was absolutely Margo Hanson––to have while he was still some sort of sober, and participating, and also upright. He owed it that much, at least.

“Tell me I’m being a bitch and I need to get over it.”

“You’re being a bitch, but I’m pretty sure you’re not in a position to get over it.”

She was, unfortunately, not wrong. Eliot tipped his head forward against his chest.

“Fuck.”

Margo patted his back. “Yeah.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“No,” she allowed, which was maybe more of a relief than it should have been, but fuck it, he was relieved. “But I know you, El.”

“And?”

“And I think you’re being an idiot.”

“Thank you for the wisdom, oh glorious Margo, destroyer of men.”

She kicked him in the shin. Hard. He yelped.

“You want to do something about it? Grow a pair of tits and talk to him.”

Eliot sighed and sunk further into the couch. Margo muttered something under her breath that he was certain was unkind, and true, and well-deserved.

“Eliot, honey, I love you but you’re gonna have to do something about it sooner or later. And I hear adults talk about their shit.”

“Ugh.” He scowled at his wine. It was red. Quentin liked red wine.

Not helping. He took a big gulp.

“Much as I would like to––” She scoffed at that, and he refrained from admitting that he really would, actually, and yeah he knew how far he had fallen–– “I think maybe that’s not such a good idea while we’re. Y’know. Working on the same show.”

“Oh, _now_ you’re going to use that excuse? What about when you brought that hot actor home, hmm?”

“Mike,” Eliot offered automatically. “Which was completely different, because that was just sex. And not a workshop. And ages ago, and clearly we’re over it.” And he’d even _turned Mike down_ not two weeks ago after rehearsal, when he’d suggested they might get a drink and see where that took them. Which was _unheard of._ Coldwater had better fucking appreciate this.

Margo raised her eyebrows. “So you don’t want to fuck Coldwater.”

“No, I do.” Oh, he definitely did. “But I’d also like to be friends with him afterwards.” Eliot considered. “Maybe more-than-friends.”

He looked at Margo. Margo looked at him. They both sighed.

“This would be funny,” said Margo, “if it weren't so damn pathetic.”

“Tell me about it,” Eliot agreed. He finished his wine, and Margo filled his glass again. They drank.

“Alright, fine,” Margo sighed. “So you like the guy. And you wanna fuck him without fucking it up.”

“That’s the idea, yes.”

“So just. _Talk_ to him, El. And if he’s down to bang, y’know. Have some fun.”

“And if he’s not?”

Margo stared at him. “Eliot,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re an idiot.”

“Bambi––”

“If not, fine, no harm done. Quentin’s remarkably chill for being wound so damn tight. He’s your friend. Like–– You know. A real friend.” _Like me_ , she didn’t say, but they both understood because they had spoken the same language since the moment they met.

Something like this wouldn’t fuck up you and me, she meant. Eliot sighed.

“That’s some remarkably well-adjusted and reasonable advice.”

“You’re damn right. And you should take it.”

Eliot considered that.

“Or just, y’know, get laid,” added Margo. “Jesus.”

Eliot snorted and kissed her cheek. “You always know the right things to say.”

“I know. Now get off me, I want to get all this makeup off and sleep for a week.”

But twenty minutes later she was back in a robe and a face mask, and she curled up under his arm like she had a thousand times before. Eliot passed her glass back to her.

“I just want you to be happy, El.”

“I know,” he said. Then, because he was sort of testing out this thing where he said how he felt about other people, “I want you to be happy too.”

She sighed. “What’s happening to us?”

“Adulthood, I think,” he said with a wash of mild existential horror, so they spent the rest of the night drinking and watching trashy television to compensate.

* * *

There was no rehearsal the last Monday of February, mostly because of a scheduling error––someone had misplaced Presidents’ Day––but that didn’t stop Quentin from meeting Alice and Eliza for a lunch meeting in downtown Brooklyn that morphed into an afternoon meeting that very nearly morphed into a dinner meeting. Eliza bowed out after about three hours, but Alice and Quentin pressed on, bouncing off each other in the sort of way that reminded him of everything good about their relationship.

They started with restructuring of act three––which helped tremendously, until even Eliza agreed, “I think you have something there,” before she had to dash. Then they poked at the first act, which didn’t need much work, and then as the winter sun started to descend in a shower of pale gold they drifted to other topics, like how the show should feel on stage, design elements and costume and, most importantly––and least realistically––how they would do the magic.

“You know what would be really cool?” Quentin said, picking at the crust of his sandwich. “If we could do it like–– Did you see that video from the Harry Potter play? Like that.”

“Mmm, yeah. Or something with light. Like–– Secret Garden, with the door.”

“Oh! Yeah, at the end where it’s just––" He sketched it out in front of him, posts and lintel and the backlight streaming through. "And the silhouettes––”

“For when he goes through at the end––”

“And then if we get the–– the tableau, I mean, just enough to see _his_ world––”

It continued along that vein for hours, long enough that they eventually exhausted what-if-ing about the play and moved on to other, meatier topics, like Alice’s dad’s latest project (building a full-sized roman bath in the basement of the family home) and their personal theories about what exactly Henry Fogg’s deal was (disgraced former monarch of a small nation, Quentin decided; Alice figured he was just kind of a sanctimonious ass) and––

“What’s going on with you and Eliot?”

Quentin looked at her, wide and surprised and flayed open, and then tried to cover it all with a frown. “I–– There’s nothing going on with me and Eliot. We’re friends.” 

Alice didn’t believe him for a second. “I mean, obviously it’s not my business and you’re free to do whatever you want I just––”

“Alice, really. There’s nothing up with me and Eliot. I mean, I don’t think there is, anyways.” He tucked his hair behind his ear, an old nervous tic, but he wasn't, as best she could tell, lying.

She blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“You just–– He always waits for you, you know.” It was a simple statement, all fact, and failed to convey what exactly she meant by it, which was something about how Eliot never made time for anyone, so this was a rather monumental allowance. Quentin, whom she loved a great deal but who didn’t always understand her, which had been part of the reason for their eventual falling out, shrugged.

“Someone has to close up and Fen is, y’know, busy.”

“Oh.” It came out stiffly; she tried to soften it. “That’s nice of him.”

“Yeah. I’m surprised he puts up with it.”

Alice stared at him. She was thinking he was a colossal idiot and blind as a bat, metaphorically, but he wouldn't have been able to tell that because he was indeed blind as a bat, metaphorically.

“Okay,” she said. “Well.”

“Is–– Is everything okay?” He looked so concerned. She almost felt bad for him.

“Quentin,” she said. He stared at her. “Sometimes you are a colossal idiot.”

“Um.”

She stood. “Thank you for lunch. Send me the new pages when they’re done.”

“Okay?” He blinked. "Is––  _is_ there something going on between me and Eliot?"

Alice blinked down at him as he frowned up at her. Then she sighed, and kissed his cheek, and left.

She’d dodged a bullet, she thought to herself as she clicked down the sidewalk, brushing past slower-moving pedestrians who didn’t have the good sense to get out of the way. She would wish Eliot the best of luck, but she wasn’t sure who needed it more.

 _Boys._  God.

* * *

Mayakovsky was arguing with Mike about… something. Quentin had tuned them out as soon as they got started, because even their tentative ceasefire hadn't done anything to improve that particular actor/director relationship, and Quentin really didn’t have it in him to care. He was tired, looking forward to getting out of town for the weekend, even if out of town was just visiting his dad. Then maybe he’d be able to stop thinking so hard about everything.

Though, given that it was him, that was probably a pipe dream.

It was starting to get all tangled up in his head was all. It was all well and good to have the play, and it was all well and good to be making friends, and it was even––according to Julia, anyway, who mostly seemed to find the whole thing amusing––well and good to nurse the quiet possibility of a crush.

But at some point the play and the friendship and the crush had collided spectacularly, without him noticing it, and ever since Alice had mentioned it he’d found himself suddenly faced with a gordian knot of work and want and worry, afraid that if he pulled too hard on any of those strings the whole thing would collapse, or strangle him, or–– something.

So: Time. Space. He wasn’t sure what he was doing about any of it, but time and space definitely seemed key.

Across the table, Eliot caught his eye and made a face, the sort that said, _We can just do the play without them, right?_ and Quentin’s heart sparked as he stifled a laugh.

Plum frowned at him. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he said. “What else do we have left for today?”

“Well, they _wanted_ to run three-two and three-three but from the looks of things––”

“Take five, everyone,” Fen called above the mounting argument, and they all sighed, stretched, rolled out stiff necks. Eliot arrived at Quentin’s chair with two paper cups of coffee, one of which he set next to Quentin’s laptop.

“You doing alright?”

“Peachy,” Quentin replied. “I know it makes me an asshole, but better him than me.”

Eliot snorted. “I’m pretty sure Mike started this one.”

“Can he stop it, then?”

“That would be the day.” Eliot took a sip of his coffee. “Fogg wants to start talking about designers.”

Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose, which did nothing to stave off his sudden headache. He reached for his coffee. “Great.”

“Nothing serious,” Eliot assured him. “We have our usual people. I think he’s just–– hoping to avoid a Mayakovsky incident. A few of them sent in concept work. We can go over it tonight, if you’re free.”

“I don’t know,” Quentin said, as if the offer to hang out with–– _work_ with, it was for work, get it together Coldwater––Eliot after rehearsal wasn’t the highlight of the day so far. “I’ll have my assistant check my schedule and get back to you.”

“Ha.”

“Of course I’m free, El. I have no life.”

“Oh, but the joys of theatre, you know.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Eliot perched on the armrest of his chair, and Quentin shifted to let him. He could feel the warmth through the layers of their clothes. Did he know, Quentin wondered. Did he do it on purpose, or was Eliot just like this always, small touches and effortless wit and grace and ease? Either he’d done something really good or really, really bad in a past life. He dragged his attention back to the conversation. “Anything good?”

“Mmm. I think so. Pamola’s gone very Guidasci-meets-Joseph-Abboud and Rachel’s up for an Obie I hear, so.”

Quentin stared blankly. Eliot sighed. “You’ll like it,” he clarified.

And Quentin trusted Eliot, so. “Okay.”

“We’re back in!”

Quentin sighed. “Twenty bucks they’re at it again in an hour.”

“I’m not taking that,” Eliot said, and Quentin laughed and shoved him off his chair. Eliot shoved him back, like schoolboys, and they regained their seats.

It was just as well Eliot hadn’t taken the bet, because someone (Fen, though Quentin didn’t know that) had spoken with Mayakovsky over the break and the director was almost personable through the rest of the afternoon, or personable by Mayakovsky standards. They ended on time, and everyone milled about for a bit before parting in ones and two. Alice left in a rush with Fen and half the cast––something about a girl’s night, and Quentin wished them all the best––forgetting her bag, but she was gone before anyone could catch her. Mayakovsky lingered nearly half an hour, held up with some legitimate questions he wanted––well, needed; want had nothing to do with it––to go over with Quentin.

They were good questions, and they had a good conversation about them, and neither of them, as per usual, was much happy about it.

Then it was just him and Eliot and the ease of their post-rehearsal ritual. It was his favorite part of the day, when he was still absorbed in the play but it wasn’t only the play, it was the-play-and-Eliot. 

He’d have liked them individually as well, but everything in his life these days was the-play-and, so. He’d take what he could get. He didn’t mind. It was a lot like being happy, and he never liked to look too hard at that, for fear of shattering it. So. The-play-and, and the _and_ was Eliot. It was all just–– very confusing, really, and he really probably needed to step back from it like, immediately. He  _liked_ being friends with Eliot. He didn't want to fuck that up with, like, capital-F Feelings.

But Alice's question was rattling around inside him, making it very difficult to think.

“None of it’s set yet,” Eliot assured him before they got started. He had laid all the sketches out on the table while Quentin and Mayakovsky talked, chairs shoved aside so they could move from sketch to sketch as Eliot explained them. “Fogg just wanted to make sure you saw some stuff before anyone went any further. There’ll be a real design meeting after the break.”

“He’ll be selecting the designers?”

“He’s been talking to a couple people,” Eliot shrugged, which Quentin knew by now meant really Eliot was talking to a couple people.

“Right.” He rolled out his neck. “Let’s do this, then.”

Eliot had been right. He did like it, or most of it, anyway. The costumes were–– a little much, some of them.

“I dunno,” he said, braced against the table over a sketch of the Magician, something from the end of the show. He and Eliot kept bumping elbows as they considered it, which kept tugging his attention away from the art. “I just–– I feel like it should be simpler. I like the tweed.”

“I knew you would.”

He snorted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eliot grinned back. “Nothing. You’d look good in tweed. Very professorial. Cute.”

I can’t tell if that was a compliment.”

“I called you cute, it had better be a compliment.”

Quentin laughed, and then–– stopped. He stared down at the design sketch. He felt small, and too big for his own skin at the same time, but it was a good feeling. Strange, and muzzy around the edges, but good.

 _Oh_ , he thought. Alice had been right. He was an idiot.

Next to him, Eliot stilled, then straightened.

“Is everything… okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Q––”

He shook his head, staring at the sketches and not seeing them. “You’re so... nice to me all the time.” Nice wasn’t the right word. Or, it was but it wasn’t. It was more than nice, like nice but a half step sideways into something else.

He could feel Eliot’s eyes on him, when he dared a glance up, he was–– smirking, sort of. It was too soft to be a smirk, a smirk but half a step sideways. Eliot, but something else. His skin felt shivery, electric.

“Yeah,” said Eliot slowly.

“I just.” Quentin wet his lips. “Why?”

Eliot stared at him a long minute, almost too long. Like he was weighing something. Like he could read Quentin’s face and was looking to see what it said.

Then his head tilted. “Really?” he said, like a dare. “Not a single idea?”

“I––” Quentin’s eyes flickered down to Eliot’s lips, right there, bowed and pink and seriously, _right there._ “I mean,” he stuttered. He couldn’t look away. This did not at all seem to bother Eliot; if anything, the curl of his lips grew more pronounced. The strange-good-sideways feeling expanded inside him, multiplying like fractals, splintering out into a million possibilities. “I could think of a few.”

Eliot took half a step forward. Quentin could smell him, aftershave and cologne and something more, something uniquely Eliot. “A _few_? I didn’t know you had it in you, Coldwater.”

“Yeah, well,” breathed Quentin, buzzing from his crown to his fingertips. The room folded around them until there was nothing else in it at all. He wet his lips and––yes, Eliot was staring too, and he was proud about that, pleased; it sluiced through him, set the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

He was so close, tangled up in it and uncaring; he was right there, he was––

The door crashed open, and Quentin stumbled back, heart hammering in his chest and his neck and his fingertips. Sharp irritation flashed across Eliot’s face before he smoothed it away. Alice Quinn stood breathing heavy in the doorway.

She looked between them, and Quentin could nearly see the moment realization hit her. She winced. 

“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry, I left my bag––”

Both Quentin and Eliot wordlessly pointed at the end of table where Alice’s bookbag had been abandoned. 

“Thanks. Sorry.” It took her only a few short strides to cross the room; somehow her legs had become longer, or the room hadn’t expanded yet, was still tight and close around them.

“Um, Q,” she said, awkward, uncertain. “I’m going downtown. Are you–– Do you want to split a cab?”

“Uh,” he said, looking helpless at Eliot, who had suddenly made himself busy collecting the concept sketches. Quentin’s world tipped sideways. He wet his lips again, and pressed the pads of his fingers against his palm. Short circuiting; the electricity fizzled. He swallowed. “Yeah, sure. Give me just a second to get my stuff.”

Eliot met his eyes once, briefly, expression unreadable and gaze hard to hold. It felt a little like being pulled apart. He though, a little wildly, that he didn’t entirely mind it. He waited for Eliot to say something.

But Eliot only looked away, so Quentin stuttered a goodbye and followed Alice out the door.

“Sorry,” she muttered again as they reached the street, night cold and crisp around them.

“It’s fine.”

“I didn't mean to––”

“It’s fine, Alice,” said Quentin, and they left it at that.

* * *

If things were weird––and they  _were_ weird now, just a little, like everything had bubbled up to the surface so the sort-of weirdness was always there, just at the top; he started every time Eliot passed by, every time they made accidental eye contact across the room, like someone had strung up a wire between them that was electric-hot and sparking and each time one of them brushed it a fresh shock jolted through him; he felt Eliot at all times, like magnetic north, like static energy building under his skin, tangible––

Okay. So, things were weird, and they didn't talk about it.

They didn’t talk about it because Eliot was late to rehearsal and as soon as Fen called things for the day Quentin had to dash from Midtown to catch a train to Jersey.

Which, like. He had definitely been wrong. Space was terrible. Time was terrible. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be back in the city, with Eliot; he’d rather have been tangled up there than out here on his own. He couldn’t talk about it out here; he couldn’t orient himself out here. He was the compass needle spinning, seeking something left behind. There was nothing to do _but_ think.

And because he had the poker face of a–– of someone with a really bad poker face, his dad picked up on it. Like, immediately.

“You alright, Curly Q?”

“Fine. Just, y’know, work.” It wasn’t even a lie, really, not when everything was so muddled.

Ted Coldwater, one should note, was not a stupid man. He was not a brilliant man either, but there is plenty of wiggle room between the two, and Ted Coldwater fell rather neatly in the middle, as he did with so many things in his life. He had a good, solid mind and a good, solid career––until the cancer, anyhow––and had been a good, solid father. Not the best. Not the worst. Middling, but determined about it.

(He had passed this determination along to his son, as well as a predisposition for depression. Quentin’s spark and imagination, he would have said if he had been asked––he had not––belonged to his ex-wife. Funny the things you realized about yourself when they showed up in your kid.)

All this to say, when Quentin didn’t-quite-lie to him about work, Ted Coldwater was smart enough––and knew his son well enough––to tell.

“Q,” he frowned, which drew his son’s attention as immediately now as it always had, except for a short-lived and generally embarrassing period of teenage rebellion around fifteen. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“It’s just work, Dad.”

He understood very little about the theatre thing, Ted. Oh, he got it in theory, but things he got in theory tended to be a little fuzzier than usual these days, and he knew there was quite a lot that went on that one couldn’t really grasp without being there. Hands-on, that’s what it was. He hadn’t been surprised when Quentin had come home declaring he wanted to do theatre. Between the making and the magic and the hands-on-ness––well, it had made sense, somehow.

But for all that he didn’t understand it, he still worried. He frowned. “Someone giving you trouble?”

“No, that’s not–– I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Ted Coldwater was faced with the conundrum of parents the world over. He chewed on his words for a moment. “You know you can, if you want. Right? I’m, um. Listening.”

You could give him this: he may not have been the smartest, or the most talented, but he was a kind man, and he cared.

(Quentin had inherited that from him too.)

Quentin said, “I know.”

There was no way to be sure, of course, but Ted did his best to take his son at his word, because it was the right thing to do, and because when Quentin had been a teenager and Ted hadn’t known a single thing he could do to help with, with _everything_ , he had been told by a kind and well-meaning professional, _Trust him when he talks to you_. There had been other advice too, but he had hung on to that one. It had seemed worth the holding on to.

“Right. Well.” He nodded, mostly to himself. “There’s a game on at three. Want to watch it?”

Quentin stared at him, and then sighed, long and heavy, and afterwards some of the tension seemed to have drifted away. “Yeah,” he said, taking the olive branch. “Yeah, sure.”

So they sat on the couch, and watched the game, and Ted wasn’t entirely sure which team to root for but that was alright, because things like that had to be alright these days.

“I do like it,” Quentin said suddenly near the end of the third quarter, and Ted couldn’t entirely recall what he was talking about. “It’s a lot, but–– It's good. The people I'm working with, they–– I like it. I like them.”

“That’s good, Curly Q,” he said, watching one of the players miss a three-pointer. “That’s good.”

“It feels important,” Quentin said quietly. “Like it matters.” Ted wondered if he meant the play or the people or just the making of it all, and then he couldn’t quite remember why he wanted to ask.

“That’s good,” he said again, and they watched the game.

* * *

There is a very specific sort of chaos that arises when a run starts to come together, and one was coming together now. Certainly there had been performances up until this point, but they were stilted, half-living things for small groups of fellow artists, a few critics Henry knew personally who would be gentle, forgiving. They weren’t about cultivating prestige; they were about feedback, dry runs, that sort of thing.

The final week of the workshop was not like that at all.

That week they had a show open to all sorts, people outside of Henry Fogg’s carefully-cultivated sphere of influence. Or perhaps not outside it, but grander than it. The McAllisters, the Schiff family, Ben Brantley; folk of that ilk. A grand unveiling, one last hurrah before they transitioned upstairs and the play took on new, stranger dimensions.

Expectations were high. Tensions were higher. Quentin walked into it all on Monday with a familiar cocktail of anxiety and dread churning in his stomach. This was always the worst part, the discovery of wether or not the play could stand on its own two legs after all the time and effort they’d put getting it on its feet.

It was not much helped by the fact that he could barely look at Eliot without wanting to jump out of his own skin and climb under Eliot’s. He really had the absolute worst timing. Fuck.

“Sugar and cream?” Plum asked him, as always. He took the coffee and burnt the roof of his mouth gulping some of it down.

“How are we doing?”

“Mayakovsky wants to step through act four today because apparently Mike’s missing… something. The new pages maybe? They weren’t clear, but neither of them looked happy about it. Surprise, I know. And we have a few costume pieces we want to see if we can use so we might run some changes. The designers are coming in tomorrow to watch the runthrough and then it’ll be notes and, like, spot checks. Wednesday we’re a half day, Thursday is dress even though there’s not much dress and obviously Friday is the run.”

Quentin nodded through it all, taking in maybe twenty percent. “I meant more, like. Emotionally. Mentally.”

“Oh. Well, I’m good, you look sort of like you want to throw up, and everyone else is either excited, stressed out, or somewhere in between.”

“Great,” Quentin muttered. He took his seat.

They ended late with an announcement from Fen about last-minute preparations and not goofing around with the stage hands and if whoever was leaving joints on the props table could stop that immediately she'd be very grateful about not having to involve the authorities. Everyone trickled out in ones and twos. There was talk of meeting back up at a local bar. Quentin begged off, too keyed up to go out drinking. He was too keyed up to go much of anywhere really, even home. He lingered as everyone else left, burying himself up to his eyeballs in work so he could do something besides think, because if he thought too hard about anything he was definitely going to completely fall to pieces.

God. Theater was the worst.

Then he blinked and it was past midnight. Quentin frowned at the clock in the corner of his screen, then the one up on the wall, then Eliot lying with his feet kicked up on the ugly leather couch, computer balanced on his stomach. Quentin hadn’t even realized he’d stayed. He had expected–– He’d thought, maybe Fen would be here today, after last week, after how _weird_ it all had been.

Apparently not.

His pulse jumped.

“Sorry,” he said, pushing the computer away and stretching. His back popped in a rolling cascade. He forced his voice steady, like he could pretend he wasn’t aware how late it was, how alone they were, how taut the air stretched between them. How Quentin had wanted to kiss Eliot, and he was pretty fucking sure Eliot wanted to kiss him too, and they hadn't said anything about it. “You should have said something.”

“I couldn’t possibly interrupt the artiste at work,” Eliot said easily, tugging his headphones out.

“You definitely could have,” Quentin countered. Eliot hummed.

“Still working?”

“Yes. It’s hopeless,” Quentin sighed. “You may as well just give me the keys.”

Eliot sat up at that, tucking his computer away. He looked amused by the very concept. “So you can have a sleepover?”

“Honestly? Yeah. It’s barely worth the effort to get home. There are showers. I’ll just move in.” He was joking, mostly. It wasn’t actually the worst idea he’d had.

Eliot snorted. “You’ll be just like Mayakovsky.”

Quentin gaped at him. “I can’t believe you said that to me.”

“You heard me.”

“No. It’s completely different.”

“Mmm, no, I’m not seeing it.”

“You,” said Quentin, closing his computer, “are an asshole.”

“Undoubtedly,” Eliot agreed. There was a glint in his eyes. _He knows too_ , Quentin thought, and it zinged through him. “What are you gonna do about it, Coldwater?”

So Quentin did about the only thing he could think to do, which was climb over the table and kiss him.

Eliot surged up to meet him halfway.

It wasn’t particularly nice. There was no artistry to it, no patience or waiting. Or, rather, they had done the waiting already; they had done weeks and weeks of it, when all Quentin wanted to do was put his mouth on Eliot’s, to shut him up for a moment, as if he could swallow down all that insouciance and poise.

Then Eliot’s hand found the back of his neck, moved him like he knew what he wanted and what Quentin wanted too, and the kiss gentled to something smoother, intent. Quentin fisted his hands in Eliot’s shirt and held on as best as he could.

When it ended, he pulled back breathlessly and smiled. It was more of a smirk, a self-satisfied little thing tinged with something that felt strangely like joy, all bubbles in his chest. “Mayakovsky enough for you?” he asked, and Eliot groaned, forehead tipping forward against Quentin’s.

“ _Please_ do not bring him into this.”

“Hey, you started––”

Was as far as he got, because Eliot’s hand was hot on the back of his neck and his lips were pressing against Quentin’s lips again, insistent, and Quentin couldn't focus on anything except––

_(finally)_

––kissing him.

He was electric; he was sparking; he was on fire. He breathed in Eliot; he took and took and Eliot gave and gave and they were–– moving, yes; Quentin pressed himself up and Eliot reeled him in, closer and closer, and then there was a confusion of limbs and Eliot pulled him down onto the couch, into his lap.

“You have,” Quentin hissed out in a moment when Eliot’s mouth wasn’t on his, because it was at his jaw, his throat, hot and demanding and Quentin was open, wide open, “ _no_ idea how long––”

“Pretty sure I do,” Eliot returned, so _fucking_ smug with his pupils blown black and mouth kissed-red, all smiling and satisfied, so Quentin pressed him back and kissed him again, and again, let Eliot coax his mouth open and do something just–– _incredible_ with his tongue until Quentin melted against him, into him.

 _Thank God,_ he thought distractedly. His knees dug into cracked and peeling leather and Eliot was underneath him, bracketing him, pressing up to meet him. Thank God for this couch, this ugly horrible ruin of a couch, so that he could be here, with Eliot’s fingers roaming under his shirt and Eliot’s breath against his cheek and Eliot muttering, “Q, Q, Q––” as he kissed and kissed and kissed him.

If he could do this forever, Quentin thought, he would.

“Don’t stay at the theatre,” Eliot said suddenly, coming up for air. His hands rested comfortably at Quentin’s hips, one thumb stroking just under his shirt in a way that made him sort of, kind of want to rip all his clothes off immediately. “Jesus. Just. Come stay at my place, okay?”

“Oh.” Quentin pushed himself up further, catching his breath. Reality slowly filtered back in. They were in the rehearsal room. It was late. He didn’t want to stay at the theatre. He wanted–– “Is that, um. Okay?”

“Margo will probably give you shit.”

“That’s… not what I meant.”

Eliot was looking at him, all eyes. Quentin couldn’t face it; Quentin couldn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he said, and stretched up to kiss him once, sweetly. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

It wasn’t electricity exactly. It was something smoother, fuller, deeper. It was something more, something he didn’t dare look at too closely for fear of what he’d find if he did.

He let Eliot kiss him, and left it at that.


	4. Chapter 4

At noon on Tuesday, because one fucking thing couldn’t go right in Quentin’s life without everything else going to shit, disaster struck.

“Alright!” Mike McCormick hurled his script across the room. It sailed like a frisbee, very nearly hitting Fen, and smacked into the far wall with a crunch of crumpled paper, falling limply open to three-one, which they had been running until, well–– this.

“Mike,” said Fen placatingly, with far more warmth than Quentin would have managed if someone had just thrown something at him, but Mike was having none of it.

“No! He doesn’t want to work with me?” _He_ here was Mayakovsky, who scowled, doing nothing to help his case. “Fine! I have a better offer waiting for me, where I won’t have to put up with this shit. I quit!”

“No, Mike, come on––”

But Mike only brushed past Fen, grabbed his bag, and stormed out. 

Mayakovsky stared after him, then threw his hands up.

“Good riddance!”

Fen sighed. “Take ten, everyone.”

They took ten.

Mayakovsky, after pouring himself a cup of coffee spike generously with whatever his poison of choice was today––so, really it was more of booze-with-coffee than coffee-with-booze––found Quentin worrying a hole in the floor as he paced at the far side of the room.

“So,” he said. “It is possible that was my fault.”

“Oh,” bit out Quentin as he came to a stop; he put a great deal of effort into not shouting it to the room at large, “you think?”

Mayakovsky snorted. “Do not get your panties in a twist. He is no good. Would ruin it all. Like a puppet, all strings.”

“He’s our _lead_.”

“Get a new lead. One who can act.”

“We have a show in–– Nope. Okay. No, I can’t.”

“This will be good,” Mayakovsky said with uncharacteristic cheer. “You will see.”

Quentin stared at him, vibrating with a potent mix of fury, horror, and hopelessness. He didn’t even know where to begin. He turned away intending to leave and then turned back intending to argue some more, caught between the two. Mayakovsky only shrugged, unrepentant.

“Jesus,” muttered Quentin, and sat down in the nearest chair to devote himself to not panicking.

On the other side of the room, damage control had sprung into action.

“Fogg will talk to him,” Eliot said, hanging up the phone. Fen, also calling someone, nodded distractedly in confirmation that she’d heard him. Eliot scanned the room––the remaining actors milling together talking in hushed voices, Alice and Plum commiserating near the water cooler, Mayakovsky looking pleased about it all–– _bastard_ ––and Quentin sitting in a chair in the corner, head in his hands.

At least, he thought distantly and more than a little hysterical, the designers weren’t due until three.

“Okay,” said Fen into the phone. “Thank you.”

She hung up.

“Rafe,” she said by way of explanation. Eliot nodded, waiting with only mild impatience as Fen sorted her thoughts into whatever order she needed. “He says he’s been in talks about Chatwin’s _Beast_ revival. Mike, I mean. I’m… not sure Henry is going to be much help.”

“Well,” said Eliot, eyes closing against the building headache of the situation. “Shit.”

Martin fucking Chatwin. Sanctimonious English bastard. Knowing Chatwin, he probably planned this. It was exactly the sort of dick move he’d pull after the first run of his musical had ended in literal bloodshed.

To Eliot’s slight horror, Fen’s eyes watered. Eliot swallowed.

“Hey,” he said, and reached a hesitant hand out to touch her shoulder. She didn’t shy away which was–– good, probably. Definitely good. “Hey. We’ll handle this.”

“I know,” she said, voice trembling.

Eliot leaned forward, panicky with concern and that general, aimless fear of not knowing what to do next. With the hand on Fen’s shoulder he steered them further into the corner of the room, seeking some modicum of privacy. Fen shook her head.

“Sorry,” she said thickly. “Sorry, sorry, I'm okay, I just––”

“Fen,” Eliot said as slowly and carefully as he could, taking smooth, deep breaths in an attempt to get her to breathe along with him. “We’re gonna handle this, okay?”

“I know,” she said. “Really, I’m just–– I’ll be okay.” She sucked in a hiccuping breath and wiped her eyes with the palm of her hand, smearing her makeup. “Sorry.”

He passed her a tissue. “We’ll make this work.”

She stared up at him. “How, Eliot?”

He was… working on that. He took a surreptitious look around the room over his shoulder.

“Josh was his understudy, technically, right?” The actor in question said something to the group, and they laughed. Good to know they were still having some fun despite… well, everything. “So. He could take over the role.”

“We reblocked it last week while he was out. He’d have to learn it. And someone else would have to learn his part––”

“Okay. Okay, fine, so we’ll just. Put someone in. It’s a workshop, they can stay on book and we’ll… we’ll make it work, right? It’ll be fine.” He said it as much to himself as he said it to her.

“Okay,” she said. She blotted her eyes dry, and blew her nose, and took a deep breath, looking more-or-less put together. “I guess–– Quentin could read in. Or Mayakovsky, he knows it––”

“Oh, God,” said Eliot. “We can’t put Mayakovsky on stage. They’d shut us down.”

Fen giggled. “Probably.”

“Mmm. Definitely.” Eliot turned around to survey the room again. Aside from the cast, the pool of people who had made rehearsals regularly was… limited. Tiny, really. There was Quentin, of course, but Eliot couldn’t imagine forcing him up on stage, wouldn’t do that to him. Alice knew the play backwards and forwards––better than Q, possibly––but that was. Mmm. Perhaps not the best option. Not that he doubted her dedication, but she… wasn’t exactly the acting type.

Which left Fen (out of the question), Plum (hilarious, kind of, but also a soft no) and––

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

It made a certain sort of sense. After all, hadn’t he been the one to tell Henry the script was worth it, the playwright was worth it? That they should give the program another go, just for this? He'd been the one so desperate to see it done in the first place. If that wasn’t a fucking lesson in being careful what you wished for...

And–– and Quentin was sitting across the room with his head in his hands, small and folded over on himself and all alone, and there was no way Eliot could leave him to deal with this. He just couldn’t. Not when the play mattered so much to him.

But, still. 

Fuck.

Eliot closed his eyes a moment, bracing himself and turned back to Fen. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Fen blinked. “What?”

“I’ll do it. I’ll read in. I know the show, the blocking. I’ll–– Just find me a script and I’ll fucking do it. And––” He shuddered. “Tell Mayakovsky he better be in here first thing Wednesday because we have shit to do.”

“I–– Union rules––”

“Then he’ll volunteer. Bribe him, I don’t care. We are making this happen, Fen.”

He would rather have done anything else. But there was Quentin sitting in the corner, knotted up into a ball of misery and worry, and Eliot couldn’t stand to see him like that, and couldn’t seem to look _away_ , so–– So. That’s all there was, really.

“And we better find someone real before we move upstairs.”

Fen stared at him for a moment, her face strangely calculating. It was an odd look to see on soft-and-sweet Fen, and it made his stomach drop, just a little, in fear of what precisely she could be calculating. Of what she had seen.

But she only said, “Okay,” and left to take care of–– whatever needed to be taken care of. Eliot pushed his fists into the small of his back and stretched, and took a fortifying breath. He looked at Quentin. Took another breath. Joined him.

“Hey,” he said. “Can we talk?”

Q looked up and unfolded himself, letting Eliot lead him out into the hall.

“Fuck, Eliot,” he muttered when they were more or less out of earshot of the room and the people milling about in it. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re taking care of it,” Eliot promised. Quentin slumped back against the wall, sinking to the ground, knees drawn up.

“How?” he asked dully. Eliot crouched next to him.

“I’m going to read in,” he said carefully. Quentin’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“I know the lines. I know most of the blocking. I’ll read in for Friday and we’ll… go from there, okay?”

Something in the shape of concern flitted across Quentin’s face. “Eliot, are you sure?”

“Yes.” He swallowed. “You’re not alone here, right? We’re making this work.”

“I–– okay.” It took a moment, but concern bled away to relief and gratitude and something else, something Eliot didn’t care to parse. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Eliot muttered. But he couldn’t shake the thought that he’d do this a hundred times if it meant Q would look at him like that. It was a terrifying thing to think, too fragile, too big; he squashed it down as best he could. “I could really fuck this up.”

“You won’t,” Quentin said. He pressed his lips together for a moment, then leaned over a little to kiss him, feather-light. He shrugged as he pulled away, uncertain. Eliot’s heart exploded into fireworks.

_Stop that_ , he told it. But he kissed Q back. It seemed a waste not to.

“And,” he said when they pulled apart, “I guess we should also probably talk about… this.” Like Margo said, because they were grown ups and this was important. Quentin nodded slowly, tick between his brows.

“Probably. Um, now?”

“Well,” said Eliot, and he laughed, just this side of panicked. Quentin’s hand closed around his own, grounding him. “I think I just signed up for a one-week crash course from Mayakovsky, so.”

Quentin’s face softened. “After Friday, maybe?”

“After Friday,” he agreed. He hesitated. “But–– We’re okay, right?”

“I–– Yes? I mean, I think so.” Quentin was looking up at him, all eyes. Eliot nodded, running his thumb over Q’s knuckles.

“Good,” he said. As long as they were okay, they could deal with it later. “Cause–– Q, you’re my friend, and I don’t––”

Quentin opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Fen reappeared at the end of the hallway, striding towards them. Eliot stood to meet her, dropping Quentin’s hand.

“Here it is,” she said, passing him a script, still hot from the printer. “I think maybe it’s missing the edits from last Thursday? But those are all for Janet anyways, so it’s probably fine. Are you ready?”

“Not at all,” he said, and took the script, and let her sweep him back into the hall, front and center, all eyes on him.

Quentin’s eyes on him.

Well. Here went nothing.

* * *

Quentin passed Friday in a haze of sweaty panic, which was about as gross and uncomfortable as it sounded. He couldn’t eat breakfast or lunch; he was pretty sure Plum had swapped his coffee out for decaf at some point because he’d been drinking it steadily all day and still seemed to be functioning more-or-less normally, besides the aforementioned panic. He flitted about the edges of the rehearsal space, transformed into a surprisingly tidy black box they called the Cottage (as opposed to the House upstairs; it was as pedantic as it was clever). Black drapes hung from all four walls and risers had been brought in from the bowels of the building, crammed with old chairs upholstered in battered red fabric. Alice and Plum kept him company most of the day while Fen and her ASMs made final passes and Mayakovsky ironed out the last of the bumps with the cast, repeating the same notes about matching energy levels and hitting blocking until everyone could quote him verbatim.

It was surreal. It was especially surreal to see Eliot at the center of the delicate, turning machine that was the play. It did nothing to help with the knotted tangle of work and want, but Quentin couldn’t quite bring himself to care because each and every point of connection between them was positively electric.

It was new, and terrifying, and incredible. _I want this_ , he thought, giddy. He wasn’t even sure what _this_ was, besides Eliot here, a part of something he was making, making something of it right along with him, but he wanted it more than anything.

Except, perhaps, for tonight to be over.

“You have to breathe,” Plum told him not unkindly as he paced a neat furrow across the dressing room floor. “Like, seriously. Please don’t pass out before the show even starts.”

“I won’t,” Quentin said. It was half past six. Next week they were dark, sort of, for the transition upstairs, and he planned to spend most of it doing something careless and relaxing, like watching old taped productions of _Fillory_ on the VHS player he had bought explicitly for that purpose while Penny mocked him from the kitchen.

Right now, though, he was panicking in a dressing room.

As one did. Particularly when there were a few dozen donors, producers, and award-winning creatives milling about the basement to see one’s show, or the early stages of it anyhow.

“Are you sure?” asked Plum, unconvinced. “Because I’m looking at you right now and I have to say––”

“I’m alright, Plum.” And then, because it had been bothering him all day, he held up the lukewarm coffee he had mostly given up on drinking and asked, “Is this decaf?”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously.” He nodded. “Right.”

She glanced at him askance, but whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door.

“Come in,” called Quentin.

Alice came in.

Plum looked between them. “He’s your problem,” she told Alice, and left them alone.

“How are you?” Alice asked. Quentin gave her a wan smile dredged up from the depths of his panic.

“I’m–– Y’know.”

“Yeah.”

“What if they hate it.”

“They won’t.”

“It’s not done yet.”

“It’s a workshop, Q. No one’s expecting it to be done.”

“I am.”

“No one except you, then.”

He started to pace again, which only helped a little. He was wound like a spring, waiting to snap. “I just–– Without Mike––”

“Eliot can handle it.”

“I know. I know he can, I’m not saying he can’t I just–– We just threw him in the deep end, and I don’t–– I mean, what if he can’t.”

What if they had asked too much of him? What if _Quentin_ had needed too much of him? What if he didn’t really want to do it?

It was stupid. He could do it, of course. Quentin knew he could. Quentin wasn’t great at many things in life, but he was very good at believing in people, and he believed in Eliot like anything. Alice sighed at him.

“It’s just tonight, Q,” she said. She said it kindly, with only the slightest edge of impatience, which Quentin recognized and expected, and he found a strange modicum of comfort in that. “Just–– Get through tonight, okay?”

“I’m trying.”

“It’s almost over.”

“Thank God.” He stopped pacing abruptly and sat down in front of the mirror. His tie was crooked. Alice stepped up behind him and straightened it briskly, and smoothed over his collar. She looked lovely tonight, pressed into her black dress, hair a perfect curtain of silver. He met her eyes through the mirror and sighed.

“I owe you like, the biggest thank you, for all of this. I don't know how I'd have done any of it without you.”

She stared at him, or his reflection anyway. Her eyes were big and blue behind her glasses, and they dug into him without remorse, but with a great deal of kindness, the sort that cuts all the sharper for being true and well-meant.

“I know you’re not as good as you wish you were,” she said. “But you’re a lot better than you believe.”

She set her hand on his shoulder in a show of support that was very simple, and meant a great deal. It suggested she was aware that they had come a long way from working on a disaster of a show in a tiny theater in Brooklyn that had transformed into a disaster of a relationship, and she wished him well. Quentin’s expression softened, and he put his hand on top of hers in a way that meant he understood, and he agreed, and he was glad to have her with him again.

It was one of the cleanest, quietest moments of unspoken understanding ever to have passed between them, and it cleared a great deal of the room, and their own lingering shadows with it. They both sighed, then laughed, and someone knocked at the door. 

It was Fen. She popped her head in. “We’re at ten minutes.”

“Thank you ten," Quentin called after her. He took a deep breath and straightened his already-straight tie and adjusted his cuffs. “Well,” he said. “I guess this is it.”

Alice held out her arm to him. “If you’re like this now, what are you going to do when we actually open?”

Quentin winced. “I’m trying really hard not to think about it.”

And he took her arm, and together they descended.

The room was already packed when they reached it, full of strangers in nice suits and lovely dresses. Quentin was set upon immediately by Henry Fogg, who appeared to be in unusually jovial spirits. He introduce the woman at his side as Irene McAllister, of the famed McAllister family, yes the producers, and wasn’t it wonderful that they had made it? Irene looked neither old nor young, merely well-kept and ageless in a slightly unsettling way. She smiled winningly, and had a firm handshake and a shining pearl necklace, and Quentin thought, _This is someone who knows how to make things happen._

It was an overwhelming, slightly nauseating thought––that she was here, now, watching his play––and his nerves jangled.

“I can’t wait to see it,” she said conspiratorially, after quite neatly sending Fogg and Alice off to play nice with someone else. Quentin was aware she had perfectly maneuvered all of them right where she wanted them, but if pressed he wouldn’t have been able to say how she did it. “Henry’s told me so much. I always find workshops better for testing the bones of a play than seeing it with all the… Well, you know.” She waved a hand through the air, as if sets and costumes and sound and the like were a step down, instead of a whole new layer or six of artistry, care, attention, and beauty. He couldn’t quite tell if she was joking or not.

“Um,” he said when it became clear she was looking for a response. “I hope it lives up to those expectations.”

“Well,” she said. “Your work is done, anyhow, isn’t it? Now it’s just up to them to make the magic happen.” And she laughed at her own joke.

“I guess,” agreed Quentin, and was rescued by the flickering lights indicating the play was about to start. He took his seat next to Alice.

“She scares me,” he whispered.

“Me too,” Alice agreed, and then lights went down, and the electrifying hush of a show about to begin fell upon the audience.

They came up again on a simple set of folding chairs and plastic tables. Six actors stepped in from stage left, and the last one in stood up on a chair to gather everyone’s attention. She cleared her throat.

And so the play began.

It was interesting, Quentin had always found, how knowing something could change the way time passed. Like the way a trip was always shorter coming back from somewhere than it was going there, landmarks flashing by more quickly in reverse. The play was the same; he knew it backwards and forwards, could quote along with each and every word, wince at ever muddled or muddied line, frown when he came across a clunky bit of dialogue or someone missed their blocking. So it tended to clatter along, like a carriage or a heartbeat, all rhythm, beat to beat to beat until it finally ended. At which point they’d go back to start again, or pick it apart further, or twitch and coax it into something slightly different the next time around.

But seeing it like this, in a room full of strangers, in the dark and the warmth, time slowed. Stretched. He was caught in the amber promise of a moment, watching through spun gold. He was trapped, breathless; he could not have pressed onward even if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay here forever, enveloped by the wonder.

It was a simple production, simple lighting and simple props and simple sets and simple costumes, like students after school playing at playmaking. And it was infinite, larger than him, larger than any of them.

Quentin saw it now through new eyes, open eyes. He saw it for what it was, and what it had been, and what it could become. He saw the promise of the magic, the life, the heart. He saw the hope. Folded in his tiny chair at the top row of a rickety set of risers, he found himself close to tears.

And at the center, bold and brilliant and truly spectacular, like he had been born to it, like he couldn’t possibly have done anything else, was Eliot.

It was strange to see him up on stage, not because he did not fit but because he did, and he did so perfectly. He spoke Quentin’s words like they were made for his mouth; he carried all the poise and hunger and heartbreak and determination of the Magician effortlessly; he stepped from one moment to the next as though he himself sought a brand new world of his own and suffered all the trials and tribulations that came with breathing life into the impossible.

Quentin knew his work was good because he had worked with a number of people over many, many weeks and months whose job was to make sure it was good. He hadn’t quite realized, not until just now, that it might be beautiful too.

Something happened then. Quentin didn’t know it, because he had not been there and never could have known it, but what he was feeling now what Eliot had felt months before, reading a could-be play in the comfort of his bedroom late at night. All the striving joy, all the hunger, all the awe; it was the same, reflected back, electricity strung between then and now, unbreakable, limned with pure energy, pure light.

Quentin saw the best of Eliot’s talent and hope and heart and he too fell in love.

(Well. That’s not entirely correct. Quentin had been falling in love a long while now, willfully blind and a little bit hapless, as was his way. But this was the final piece of the puzzle, the last nail in the coffin, the missing tile of the mosaic, so to speak. This was the lightning bolt moment, and it came amber-soft and warm, with tears on his cheeks.

Life’s funny like that, sometimes.)

In the text, the play ended very simply. It read thus:

_The Magician smiles, opens the door, and steps through._

_Curtain._

On stage, there was a little more to it. On stage, it looked like:

A glimmering rectangle of a doorframe suspended upstage, empty and beckoning and leading into the unknown. A single, brilliant floodlight shone through it, shattered into a thousand shards of light and possibility. The Magician took his coat from the back of the chair where it rested. He brushed it clean and shrugged it on, each movement measured, precise. He gave one last, lingering look to his workroom, a man bidding farewell to an old and dear friend.

He turned and walked upstage, paused a moment before the door, a perfect silhouette, light shining all around. His shoulders heaved with a sigh, and then he squared them and raised his chin, and with a smile––and you could tell there was a smile even without seeing his face; you could _feel_ it, like all the shards of possibility, like the beauty of making something where once there was nothing; the entire room glowed with it––he stepped through into another world.

And the stage went black.

Silence held, a long, still beat. And then, somewhere in the dark, someone started to clap. And someone else, and someone more, and it became a roar, like whitewater, bigger than the darkness, bigger than anything, shattering the amber, raining gold all around. 

The lights came on. The spell broke. Quentin breathed.

At his side, Alice let out a long, slow breath like she had been holding it. Quentin dried his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket.

“Quentin,” said Alice. She sounded slightly dazed.

“Yeah,” he said. It was about the only thing he could say.

The actors filtered back out for curtain call, went down the line and bowed together once, twice, a third time as Eliot grinned broadly and tugged them back into it. Then they broke apart, and vanished again, upstairs to the dressing rooms. The audience milled about, chattering, heaping praise on the artists in the room: Quentin, Mayakovsky, the designers, Alice, Fogg, even Todd received hearty clap on the back from someone Quentin was pretty produced shows with Andrew Lloyd Webber. Someone broke out champagne; it opened with a cheery _pop_ that cut through the chatter and drew a few scattered cheers. He received a sparkling golden glass from a stranger who disappeared before he could thank them.

He passed through the room in a shower of handshakes and congratulations, repeating the same stock phrases over and over again, things like _thank you for coming out tonight_ and _labor of love_ and _group effort_ and _plenty left to do._

Irene McAllister appeared out of the press of faces, and he was relieved to recognize someone he almost forgot to be unsettled by her. She smiled and shook his hand, and offered him a glass of champagne, which was thoughtful of him because he had misplaced––or perhaps finished––his among the chaos.

She pulled him aside slightly, and smiled sympathetically, with slightly too many teeth. “You looked a little overwhelmed.”

“It’s always a lot to see it with an audience.”

“I’m sure.”

Quentin sipped his champagne and, thus fortified, hazarded, “Not too disappointing I hope?”

“Not at all.” She looked conspiratorial, and leaned in. “Actually–– I know it’s early, so don’t spread it around, but… Well, I really think you have something here, Quentin.”

“That’s–– Oh. Thank you. That’s nice of you to say.”

She nodded. “I understands you have plans to stay here for another few weeks.”

“Yeah, into May, I think.” The dates seemed important, but she waved that away.

“Well. When you’re done with all that, I really think we might like to make something of it.”

“What do you mean?” His heart was starting to do something odd in his chest; it wasn’t beating entirely steadily.

“The McAllisters are patrons of the arts, as I’m sure you know. We pride ourselves in it. I think really it would benefit you to make something out of all your hard work, run somewhere a little more lucrative. Circle in the Square maybe? It’s a lovely space, and I believe Fun Home will be closing this fall. Brakebills is a perfectly fine place to start, of course––I did, after all––but the world is so much bigger, Quentin! You can hardly stay in a basement forever.”

He wanted to point out they weren’t staying in the Cottage, that in fact they were moving upstairs like, literally as soon as everyone was done down here, but then the rest of her statement filtered in and Quentin’s words died on his lips.

It was incomprehensible, what she was suggesting; it was a shining veneer laid upon an already golden night. They had the clout to do it, the McAllisters. They were a household name, provided your household was one largely committed to professional New York––and indeed, Western––theatre. If they wanted to back him––if they wanted to take _The Magician_ somewhere else, take it all the way to Broadway––well, it would happen, because those was the sort of people the McAllisters were. You didn’t say no to them. You couldn’t.

It took two tries to scrape together a reply. “I’m… I’m really not sure what to say.”

She laughed at him. “Well, don’t say anything now,” she told him, producing a neat rectangle of thick, cream-colored cardstock with her name and contact information printed across it. He accepted it with numb fingers. “Just think on it, and if you decide you want to do something real with of all this, give me a call. I think you may have something worthwhile. We’d love to help.”

“Thank you, Ms. McAllister, I––”

“Irene, please. I hope one day we might be working together.”

And she smiled beautifully, and shook his hand again, and left him adrift, clutching her card and his champagne.

He knocked back the rest of the champagne. It was that kind of a night.

Plum found him at some point, Eliot with her, both of them peeking into the slowly-settling room as though worried they might get dragged into a conversation. They were a comical duo, Eliot so tall and Plum so… not. It had gotten late; they must be ready to leave.

Quentin met Eliot’s eyes and his poor, overworked heart burst to light all over again in his chest. Eliot grinned at him, as happy as Quentin had ever seen him. Quentin ducked out of a conversation with someone whose name he’d forgotten as soon as he’d been introduced and joined them at the fringes of the room.

“We’re getting drinks,” said Plum as he approached. Her coat was slung over her arm and she was practically buzzing with the post-show high. For a moment he almost thought she’d hug him. “The company, I mean. Want to come?”

“Sure, yeah,” said Quentin, who didn’t want this night to end, not ever. He looked to Eliot. He wanted to pull him aside, to tell him how wonderful he had been, how incredible, how perfect. He wanted to kiss him again, friendship or no. But–– not here. Not without talking.  “Are you coming too?”

“As if I’d miss it. But I have to finish something up with dear Henry first.” He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Go on, go without me. I’ll meet you there.”

“I can stay, if you––”

Eliot waved him away. “It'll be boring. Brakebills business.”

Quentin’s face fell. “Now?”

“I know.” He rolled his eyes. “But you should celebrate! I’ll be there as soon as I’m done. Maybe I’ll even bring Henry with.”

“Please don’t."

Eliot laughed, hand braced around Quentin’s shoulder, leaning into him. "You know, he really can party," he said. Quentin had to twist to look up at him, eyebrows climbing. Eliot nodded. “I know. I was surprised too.”

“Thanks for that mental image, El." Eliot laughed again and squeezed his shoulder, which left him loose and grinning, and then Todd––fucking _Todd_ ––popped up to congratulate them and tug Eliot away in the same breath, and Quentin had to let him go. Plum raised her eyebrows at him, expectant.

“So?”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Quentin said. “Let me grab my bag.”

He grabbed Alice too while he was at it and waved a hasty goodbye to Eliot over Fogg’s shoulder, and the whole group of them tromped through the crisp-clear night. He laughed along with them, buoyed, with Irene McAllister’s card and the possibility of what came next burning a hole in his pocket.

They were met at the bar––a tiny out of the way place tucked down a side street, three times as long as it was wide and not particularly long at that––with a cheer. The company had already settled in, clearly ready to let go after weeks and weeks of hard work.

They’d earned it, Quentin thought, accepting the brimming shotglass handed to him. He held it out in a toast and everyone joined in, an uneven, jostling circle, hands knocking together and spilling sticky alcohol all over themselves and the table. Josh Hoberman counted them down and they knocked them back as one, coughing and spluttering and cheering. Quentin laughed.

“Holy shit, guys,” he shouted over the noise of the bar. “You were amazing, holy _shit_.”

They cheered for that too.

* * *

“Eliot,” said Henry. “Good.”

“Henry,” returned Eliot, far less enthused, but even the unfortunate reality of business couldn’t penetrate the afterglow of a good show, and tonight’s had been among the best. Even after a shower, a change of clothes, and a bottle of champagne popped up in the green room he could feel the liquid metal glow of it pumping through him. “Can we make this quick? I have a party to get to.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a cast party tonight.”

“I’d say I was surprised about the missing invite, but––”

“Eliot,” Henry said again. Firm, authoritative, calling him back to attention. Eliot frowned, some of the high fading. He rallied himself.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” On this night, of all nights. Henry laced his fingers together.

“Our deal.”

“Our–– Oh.” His eyes narrowed, suddenly doubtful, on the cusp of angry. He brought one hand up and folded his fingers tight before he could do something as stupid as wave them in Henry’s face. “Tell me you did not have anything to do with the Mike disaster.”

“No,” Henry assured him. “That little fucker played me as much as anyone.”

Acceptable. The edge of anger faded.

“No, about that job you have lined up with Irene McAllister.” Henry held up a hand at his protest and frowned, deep lines furrowing across his face. “I know we agreed the end of the show, but–– Well, I can’t deny you’ve done us a great service volunteering to do this distasteful duty––” There was an edge of derision to the way he said _distasteful,_ but Eliot had long since learned to ignore any judgement calls Henry Fogg might make. As if he was in any position to call people on their shit. “With that in mind, I am releasing you from your contract early.”

“You–– What?”

“You’re done. Let go, free to resign, whatever you want to call it.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Henry narrowed his eyes. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

Eliot furrowed his brow.

“No,” he said. It stuck in his throat, just a little. He cleared it. “Of course not.”

“Very well. Thank you for your help. I’m sure you’ll wonder how we’ll manage without you, but I would remind you we did so perfectly well and we will do so again. I wish you the best of luck with Irene. I hear she’s in talks to pick up Beast.”

“She got it.” Eliot had seen the confirmation only yesterday. Henry sniffed.

“Terrible project. They deserve each other. Now go get turnt, or whatever it is you millennials do.”

“Jesus,” muttered Eliot, who never wanted to hear Henry Fogg use the word _turnt_ again. Henry clapped him once on the shoulder and took his leave, whistling merrily as he did so. The lights in the room went out.

Eliot stood alone in the dark.

He seemed, suddenly, quite unable to do anything at all. The echo of Henry’s parting vibrated through him. It made his teeth hurt.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, world distant and buzzing, before someone appeared in the doorway, a perfect black silhouette. 

“Eliot,” Fen called, and he jumped. “Are you coming to the bar?”

“Yes,” he said. His voice came from a very long way away. He was dazed. He wasn’t entirely in control of his own body. He was––

Happy? He thought he should be. Was supposed to be. It was what he wanted, after all: to be free of Brakebills, to work with someone who had true clout, true power. He would be up there with the kings and queens of their little world, rubbing elbows with the most powerful members of the community, the ones who made things happen instead of just talking about it in the hypothetical. If Irene McAllister wanted something done––even if that something was _Beast_ ––it would happen.

The whole world was opening up before him. His very own magic doorway; all he had to do was take that first step. 

But he was locked in place. Frozen. He couldn’t move.

“Eliot?” called Fen again. He blinked and shook himself. Fen was waiting. They were all waiting, because they were celebrating, and he was supposed to be celebrating with them. 

“Yes,” he repeated. “Coming.”

Somehow, despite the feeling like someone had set his feet in concrete, he followed Fen out the theatre and down the handful of blocks to the bar. The world was distant, cottony. Fen chattered, and he hummed and nodded along, a million miles away. Pieces of a puzzle he thought he knew suddenly didn’t fit together. Feelings he was meant to be feeling were curiously absent. He was tangled in something, caught, and wasn’t entirely sure what it was that held him back.

He was happy. Wasn’t he? He'd meant to be happy about this. Three months ago he’d have been thrilled, even. What had changed?

The humid heat of the bar hit like a furnace blast when they arrived, and the shock of it cleared away some of the cobwebs. Not all, but enough. Enough that he remembered himself, remembered to plaster a smile to his face. Appearances had to be maintained, after all, and he fell back on old routines almost by habit, scanning the room. There was Alice, and the rest of the cast, and Fen’s stagehands, and––

Quentin.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Q’s face lit up when he saw Eliot, grinning and bright and already halfway up to greet him. Fen tugged Eliot along unprotesting to the table they had claimed, where he was met with a flurry of back-patting and hugs. A shot was put in his hand and he downed it automatically, laughed at a joke he hadn’t heard enough to understand or find funny, and turned right into Q, nearly knocking his drink out of his hand. He righted the bottle, hand closing tight around Quentin’s fingers, and tugged away as if burned.

“Hey,” said Quentin, oblivious to Eliot’s fumbling.

“Hey,” Eliot echoed. Quentin stared up at him, flushed and bright-eyed and beautiful. Eliot’s heart caught just looking at him. “Congratulations on the show tonight.”

Quentin grinned. “I should be the one congratulating you. Or singing your praises, maybe.”

“Q––”

“Seriously,” he pushed ahead, voice raised to be heard over the din of the bar. “I mean, holy shit. I never–– Eliot, you were just, like, just incredible up there. Really.”

The metal-bright thrill in his veins turned leaden. He needed a drink. There was a pitcher on the table; he poured himself a glass and took a long pull and regretted it almost instantly. God, what was it with people and completely ruining a margarita; there was an _art_ to this they were completely missing.

Quentin, sweet, tasteless Quentin, cradled his sweating beer, still staring up at him.

“You should be up there every night,” he added, burning earnest. “Everyone should know how incredible you are.”

Eliot’s heart did something strange and not entirely unpleasant in his chest, and it was all the more terrible for how not-terrible it was. He caught Quentin by the shoulders, held him still and attentive.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said, ears ringing in a way that had nothing to do with the noise, “but I don’t think you mean that.”

Quentin frowned at him, almost confused, and Eliot’s whole chest went tight. Quentin, bright-eyed and pliant and clearly well on his way to drunk, didn’t protest when Eliot tucked him under one arm and steered him through the tight press of the bar, smiling an empty smile as people stopped him to congratulate them like Eliot had anything to do with it all. His stomach churned, and it had nothing to do with the terrible margarita. He needed suddenly, desperately, to be outside.

They found themselves in the back, past the bathrooms and through the propped-open fire door out to the alley. Someone had left a picnic table out there, covered in illegible graffiti and cigarette burns. Eliot sat on top of it now, Quentin on the bench, leaning against his leg, a warm, half familiar weight. Eliot went fishing for a cigarette and found his pockets empty. Dammit.

“Here,” said Q, passing one back to him. He lit it shakily and took a long, unsteady drag, then another.

“Thanks,” he said, coughing a little, feeling more settled. “I–– Sorry.”

Quentin tilted his head back to look at him. The cold seemed to have cleared his head some. “For what?”

“Tonight. This week. It’s been a shitshow.”

“You don’t have to be sorry about that.” Quentin settled more comfortably against him. “I mean, you pretty much saved our collective asses. We should be down on our knees thanking you.”

“Well,” Eliot said, shrugging one shoulder. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”

Quentin blushed and also grinned, bumping his shoulder against Eliot’s leg.

“Really though,” he said, reaching up for the cigarette. Eliot passed it to him, fingers tangling together.

“What?”

“Thank you.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know you could act like that.”

“It’s… been a while.”

Q frowned, then twisted to sit cross legged on the bench, shins against Eliot’s ankle. He was warm through the layers of their jeans. Eliot wanted to reach down and wrap him up, fold himself inside Quentin. He reached for the cigarette instead, took another drag and grit his teeth until his hands stopped shaking.

“Why?”

“I––” Wanted it too much. Wanted it until it hurt, and it had been easier to tuck it away with all the things that he wanted, the things that _hurt_ because he wanted them so badly, than it had been to face it. He huffed, derisive. “Actors aren’t anything. Too many people, everyone wants–– Fame, the glory, the attention.” The electricity. The thrill. To be someone else for a little while, up there where everyone could see. He swallowed thickly. “Producing was always more…” He waved a hand. “Lucrative. Rewarding.”

Quentin was still staring at him, brow furrowed, lips parted. “Okay,” he said slowly, like a question. He looked like he was second guessing himself, and then like he wasn’t. “Eliot,” he said, slow again but steadier. “El, you’re _really_ good.”

He said it like he was trying to say something else, like it meant something more. Eliot closed his eyes to it. He didn’t want to hear. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to see. He was going, and it would hurt less if he didn’t know what Quentin was trying to say.

This was always going to happen. All he had been was a stopgap, something to fill the spot until a worthier candidate came along. He thought suddenly of Alice Quinn, and Quentin slinking away with her the first night Eliot had meant to kiss him, and his stomach twisted.

In the face this familiar discomfort, he sought refuge in his old carelessness. It fit strangely around him now, as if he had grown when he wasn’t paying attention and now it was too short in the ankles, too small at the wrists, tight around his shoulders. An ill-fitting armor. He blew smoke out in a long, smooth stream, let it curl through the cold night. It was spring, nearly. What a marvel that was.

“Well,” he said, leaning back on one hand. Quentin’s shins were warm against his ankle. “It hardly matters anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m leaving.”

“You–– what?”

“Brakebills.” The admittance tasted like ash, which was–– stupid, he was being stupid, he wanted this. Not in the glowing, incandescent way he wanted the stage, and the magic, and Quentin, but––

But enough. It fit him; it fit the part he had written for himself. This was what people like him did, settled at the elbows of those with more power and built themselves up from the scraps left behind. He was _good_ at it. What did it matter what his stupid, useless heart wanted.

And Quentin was fucking–– staring at him, like he wasn’t even surprised. Just staring, steady and solemn. Watching.

“You knew,” he said. Accused. His stomach lurched, the feeling of walking down the stairs and skipping a step. For a terrible moment he was freefalling. “How did you––?”

Quentin took the cigarette from his loose fingers. He had the good grace to look a little apologetic.

“Fen mentioned it,” he admitted, and took a drag. Smoke curled up between them. “I didn’t think it was true.”

“Yeah. Well.”

Quentin flicked away ash and passed the cigarette back. Their hands didn’t quite touch. “Is it true Irene McAllister offered you a job?”

“Yes.”

Quentin scratched at his chin. “She gave me her card.”

“She’s doing Beast.”

“She–– oh.” He bit his lip. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Eliot swallowed and tried to feel less bad about it. It happened like this, people making promises they were never going to keep. One of those unpleasant realities of doing business. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s–– Okay.”

They were silent, each tangled in his own thoughts.

Quentin said, small: “Do you think–– maybe you would stay?”

Eliot looked at him.

“What for?”

He knew what for, of course. He knew, and he asked it anyways, because he was in the habit of this, of closing his eyes and mind and heart to things he wanted, for fear that he might ruin them if he was ever so lucky as to get them.

Whoever the fuck said it was better to have loved and lost had no goddamn clue what they were talking about.

Quentin flinched, and pushed through anyways, because he was in the habit of that, of believing in things and people more than they merited, more than they deserved.

“You were really–– Up there on stage, it was like. It was like everything I thought it would be, and I didn’t even realize it until you were there, doing it.” He leaned forward suddenly, braced one elbow on the top of the table and stared up at him. “You could still be a part of this, you know? We could still be–– We could make this work.”

“Q,” he said. Soft, gentle; let him down easy. He could do that, at least; he could offer that kindness. “Your work is beautiful. I love it. But you know you’d never have bothered with me if there was another option. There are a hundred other guys who’d be happy to play the part. Real actors. Cast one of them.”

“Fuck those other guys, El––”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Quentin.” He felt punctured, like something was leaking out of him, sharp and cold, hissing out into the night. Like something had been needling at him, and Quentin’s misplaced belief was the final blow. “It’s hardly like this is what I want to be doing.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“What?”

“You must have some idea if it’s not staying here.” _With me, with us_ his eyes accused. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I don’t–– Fuck, Quentin, I want to do something that matters.”

“This matters!”

“To _you_.”

Quentin’s face was hard as stone, and then that fractured and all that was beneath was disappointment. “But not to you.”

Anger he could have weathered. Hatred, condemnation, even the senseless belief, he could have managed all of that. The disappointment, though, that was unbearable. 

Eliot already knew what a colossal fuckup he was. He didn’t need to see it written across Quentin’s face.

“Yeah, well.” He snorted, sneering, holding his ill-fitting armor as tight as he could. “Sorry that I want to be more than a glorified assistant at some pathetic excuse of a theatre program for wannabe writers.”

Quentin stared at him, and then he–– didn’t. Eliot watched it happen, face shuttering, going flat and still, and then he looked away, turning out towards the grimy alley. He swung his legs over the side of the bench. The spot against his ankle where they'd been touching went cold.

In his chest, Eliot’s useless, fragile, _wanting_ heart twisted, like it could break free if it tried hard enough, like it could find somewhere better to live than inside him. 

For a long minute, the alley was silent. Eliot felt sick.

“I’m sorry,” he said, far too late. It had been too late before he’d even spoken; it had been too late when he’d arrived. “I didn’t… mean it like that.” It came out brittle to his ears. Quentin stood up. Eliot’s eyes burned.

“How did you mean it?” he asked. There was no fire to it, no anything. His voice was dull. “You’re just in it for the money?”

“You make me sound like a bad TV villain.”

Quentin snorted, which hurt more than the anger. He did this, Q, left himself open and soft, and he just–– Couldn’t he just stop? Stop putting his heart out there for anyone and everyone to shatter? It made his teeth hurt. _Stop it_ , he wanted to say. _Stop being hurt by me, you’re not supposed to be mine to hurt_.

It wasn’t fair. Eliot didn’t want to hurt him, Eliot wanted–– to be _done_ with wanting, to just. Fucking. God, he’d had it all planned out, perfectly content to bury his heart where it couldn’t do anything to him, and then along came Quentin _fucking_ Coldwater to drag it back up.

And Eliot––the buried parts of him, strangled and suffocating and wanting wanting _wanting_ ––was, perversely, fucking grateful for it.

He hesitated, then reached out to touch his arm. Quentin ducked away from it, just a little, just enough. There it was again, the feeling of falling. Eliot’s stomach lurched.

“It’s fine,” Quentin said, mostly to the ground. He stood up, like he couldn’t put enough space between them, and stopped himself. “It’s fine, okay. It’s–– Whatever you want, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter, clearly. But it’s not––” He swallowed, sharp and tight, and his eyes cut into Eliot, who felt very small then, and something he would later realize was ashamed. Quentin’s hands grasped at empty air; he shoved them in his pockets. “This matters to me, okay? This, Brakebills, the fucking _art_ , yeah, sue me. But I don’t expect you to care about it, so. It’s fine. I don’t…  expect anything from you.”

And _that_ hurt in its own way, but it was–– It was good, then, that Quentin didn’t–– That he didn’t care. Mind. He swallowed, and tried not to mind the scraps of what-if going up in smoke.  “Well,” he said. “Good.”

“Yeah.”

“I hope it goes well,” Eliot said. He meant it. Quentin stared at the ground.

“Sure.”

_We can’t all be like you_ , he wanted to say, but that would be unfair. It would be unfair to lay his own inadequacies at Quentin’s feet. He stood up. Quentin stepped aside, a clear dismissal. Eliot hesitated.

“I can still–– We’ll see each other around, obviously. If you want.” You can still see me, he meant, in all senses of the word, sort of, if that’s what Quentin wanted them to mean. Whatever Quentin wanted them to mean. Whatever Quentin wanted.

Quentin took a breath. “Still be friends.”

His heart sank, but–– “Yes.” Anything he wanted.

“I think… I think maybe that wouldn’t be a good idea, right now.” Quentin wouldn’t look at him.

“Q––”

“I just. I need some time.”

Eliot was hollow inside. Empty. Spent. “Right,” he said.

“Sorry.”

“No, I–– Get it.”

He’d gotten it wrong, somehow. Somewhere in there he’d gotten it wrong. Quentin didn’t want this the way he did. Quentin wanted the play. He had just been–– caught up in it.

That was fine. Quentin should keep it, and Eliot wouldn’t ruin it, wouldn’t fuck this up any more than he already had.

“Okay,” he said. He said, “Thanks for the smoke.”

“Sure.”

He held there a moment, a beat, like something might change if he just waited. But it didn’t, because Eliot ruined everything he touched, so. He strode past Quentin, gave him a wide berth, returned to the noise and the haze of the bar. Fen grinned at him when she caught his eye across the room, bright and excited, and he did his best to smile for her.

He caught sight, briefly, of Quentin stepping back inside, and Alice intercepting him. Nausea swept through him, and then bitterness, and then a sullen, heavy guilt for both.

Fuck it. He was leaving, he was out of here, he was gone. Greener pastures, better prospects. Somewhere he wouldn’t fuck up the best thing in his life. 

He grabbed his bag, and yanked up the collar of his coat, and left.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change in rating! Thank you!

Quentin woke to an awful hangover. His head pounded, his mouth tasted like old carpet and felt kind of the same, and a sourceless, choking anxiety swept through him, resolving into a heavy weight in his gut as consciousness filtered in. This did fuck all to help with the hangover, and sort of made him want to dig his brain out of his skull with a grapefruit spoon. He remembered the previous night like a bad movie montage: the glow of the show, the haze of the bar, snatches of conversation, shadowy imprints of distant, muddled feelings, and a lot of alcohol.

Like, a _lot_ of alcohol.

He heaved himself upright and waited for the world to stop spinning. The clock on his wall suggested it was some time after ten, but not so late as past noon. He pressed his palms flat against his eyes and did his level best not to throw up all over himself or his floor. The hardwood was cold against the soles of his feet, and when he finally managed stumble to the bathroom he did so shivering and hunched over and generally all manner of miserable.

The hot spray of the shower helped a little. He washed away some of the night, and the blur of images and feelings clouding the edges of his dried apricot brain coalesced into concrete memories.

He immediately regretted the clarity and longed for the cottony pall again, so he wouldn't have to remember how thoroughly he'd ruined the night.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hand braced against the wall. Eliot was painted against his eyelids, expression tight and angry in a way Quentin had never seen it before. _I want to do something that matters_ , said the memory, over and over and over again, like a record caught on loop. _Something that matters. Something that matters_. Quentin pressed his forehead against the cold tiles of the shower wall and forced back a wave of nausea, and a secondary, senseless wave of tears at the scraped-hollow feeling inside his chest.

He'd been an idiot. Of course Eliot wouldn’t choose this. He had better things to do, more impressive things. He was built for the limelight life. Quentin knew that; Quentin had known it the moment they’d met, when he had been all poise and insouciance, untouchable. Of course he wouldn’t keep slumming it with him and his stupid fucking play, not when he had a choice.

He’d been a fool to expect anything else.

He turned off the water. He took a handful of slow, shallow breaths. He threw up in the toilet and felt slightly better. He brushed his teeth, and made himself put on clean, dry clothes.

And then––because really, wasn’t that enough effort for the day––he climbed back into bed and watched _Six Feet Under_ in the dark, nursing his hangover and heartache and not emerging until sometime after dinner to microwave something nominally edible and retreat back to his room.

* * *

On Tuesday he stumbled from his room a little after noon, blinking in the buzzing-bright lights of the kitchen. Penny sat at the table, frowning at him in something that almost resembled concern.

“Wow,” said Penny. “You look like shit.”

Quentin, barefoot in sweatpants and poking through the cabinet in a halfhearted attempt to find something to eat that wasn’t stale cereal, grunted. “Thanks.”

“You like, alright?”

“Fine.”

“Seriously?”

“Go away, Penny.”

“I live here, asshole.” But he let it alone. Quentin gave up, grabbed the box of cereal, and retreated to his room.

That Julia called not twenty minutes later was a coincidence he didn’t care to examine too closely.

He let her go to voicemail. She rang again immediately. Quentin hit the green button with a sigh.

“I’m fine."

“Bullshit.” She sounded tinny and distorted over the phone. “I’m coming over.”

“Jules––”

“Wash your hair and put on pants, Q. I’ll be there in thirty.”

“I’m wearing pants,” he muttered. She had already hung up.

It took him twenty minutes to drag himself out of bed, and he was still in the shower when she arrived, hot water burning down his back in a way that was just shy of painful. He could hear her and Penny in the kitchen; he stayed under the spray until he felt red and raw and met her with his hair dripping.

She and Penny sat together at the table, heads close, and looked up when he entered in the sort of way that suggested they had been talking about him, or talking around him in any case. Quentin tried to care about that and didn’t. Julia smiled a little, the smile she only ever had for him, which was soft and familiar. Penny said something aside to her and she nodded distractedly.

“Hey, Q.”

“Hey Jules.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” she suggested in a way that wasn’t a suggestion at all. 

They went for a walk.

The sky above was a flat, gray slate, and the sidewalk underfoot was too, and it was a little like walking through a neitherworld, perfect mirror between sky and ground. The barest hints of spring struggled up around them, silver-bare trees yielding to the first buds of new life. Julia took his arm, warm and familiar, and he let her.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said when they had wandered a block from the apartment.

“Okay,” she told him, and because this was Julia, he believed her.

It was, despite everything, nice to see her again. It happened like this sometimes, that their lives diverged sharply, as if they were on different planets, and they would go weeks, months, without seeing each other. A far cry from living in each other’s pockets like they had in undergrad, and high school, and middle school too, those halcyon days spent tucked away in the library, whispering about foreign worlds and magic and making both for themselves.

They turned the corner. A small dog ran up, sniffing around their heels and jumping up at their knees until they reached down to pet it. Its owner came along a moment later, short of breath and apologetic, and they continued on.

Julia said, “Penny asked me out.”

“What the fuck.”

He stopped to stare at her. She shrugged a shoulder and smiled, tight and uncertain. “Yeah.”

“I thought you were–– I mean, I thought you and Kady were–– Y’know.”

“Yeah.” She shrugged again, and tugged him onwards. He went without protest, tripping over his feet a little. “We’re, um. Figuring it out.”

“Wow,” he said. It was sort of nice, in a weird, what-the-actual-fuck kind of way, to have something to put his own… _whatever_ into perspective. “What did you say?”

“We’d figure it out.”

“So… Yes?”

“I guess.”

He stared at her slantwise and found her uncommonly difficult to read. “Are you… I mean, is that. Okay? Or, um, good?”

“I think so,” she said. “I think it could be.” She caught him staring and smiled again, just at the corners of her eyes, small and pursed. “We all want to try, so.”

“Okay.” He frowned a moment, then squeezed her arm where it looped through his. “Okay, well. Good.”

“Yeah.”

They walked a little farther in a softer, kinder silence. The sky cleared a little; pockets of blue appeared like holes in an old blanket, and the watery sunlight ran like egg yolk behind the thinning grey of the clouds. Quentin’s fingers went stiff with the cold, and Julia’s nose was pink and runny, so they stopped at a corner shop for coffee, sat pressed together at the high countertop at the window looking out over the street.

“I wish you could have been at the show,” Quentin said quietly. Julia looked at him; he could feel the weight of her gaze, but he kept his eyes fixed out on the street.

“Me too,” she said. Quentin wrapped his hands more firmly around his coffee.

“He was–– I, mean, it was–– I don’t know. I got it, for a moment, y’know?” He looked at her now. She didn’t know; he could see that on her face. He smiled, crooked and heartsore and tired. God. He was so tired.

“Q––”

“I just–– Mm. It’s stupid.” His eyes were hot, his throat tight. He screwed his face up a moment, willed it away with limited success.

“It’s not stupid if it matters.” He rolled his eyes at her, and she laughed. “Okay. It can be stupid and matter. How’s that?”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek. He wanted to talk about it, and he didn’t. He felt maybe like if he did it would all spill out, he would lose it, and he wasn’t ready to let go yet, even though the holding hurt. He didn’t know where he stood; everything kept shifting around him. He was heartsick and sore without feeling any right to it. 

“I wish it wasn’t so hard.”

Julia waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. She bumped his shoulder. “I’m here.”

He felt like the sky, sort of: worn through, a little patchwork, egg yolk sun all runny and thin. He pushed his hair behind one ear. Bumped her shoulder back. “I know.”

They finished their coffee. Julia walked him home and kissed him on the cheek out in front of the apartment steps.

“I’ll be okay,” he promised, feeling the edge of truth beneath it. “Really.”

“I’m in your corner, you know.”

“Wicker and Coldwater against the world?”

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you wanted to.”

He gave her a tight, gleaming hug. “Come to the opening? I’ll get you a ticket. You can sit with Dad.”

“Just like old times?”

“Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

He turned to go, but she reached out to take him by the hand before he could leave. Her face was solemn, solemn enough that he stopped in his tracks.

“Listen,” she said. “Q. If it made sense, if you figured out why it was so important–– That’s probably worth holding on to.”

He got the feeling she wasn’t just talking about the play anymore. But then, it never was just the play, or the other thing, it was always the-play-and. The trouble with the tangle, which he’d sorted out too late. It was his own fault, really.

His mouth quirked, a smile without any warmth or light. “I think I might have missed my chance on that one.”

“Maybe you just need time to figure it out.”

“Don’t exactly have a lot of that these days.”

“You’ve got right now.”

His mouth opened, closed, open again. He was aimless, electric current ungrounded. His hands opened at his side, helpless, grasping for something that wasn’t there. “Jules––”

“Just–– think about it, okay? Going after what you want, right?”

“Cause that’s turned out so well.”

She smiled at him, all sadness and hope, and squeezed his hand. “Think about it.”

The door opened above them, Penny framed in the opening. Quentin smiled at Julia, squeezed her hand briefly and let go. He nodded to Penny as they passed on the stairs. The last he saw of Jules was her looking up with a wide smile that wasn’t for him, and he was happy for her, and he was all scudding clouds, waiting for the sun.

* * *

Quentin’s single standing obligation for the week was lunch with Margo and Eliot on Wednesday at their usual place. He fully intended to bail, stay in bed all day, and continue to watch a decade-old television show while pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist for like, solidly seventy-two hours. He texted Margo that morning to let her know that something had come up, a vaguely-worded yet unavoidable conflict, and he would be very sorry to miss their lunch but he was sure they’d have plenty of opportunity to see each other in the future.

Margo’s reply came quickly:

_don’t you dare cock out on me_

Then:

_el isn’t coming_

_so be there_

_or else_

And there was a smiley face after “else,” so Quentin––who had a fairly healthy self-preservation instinct, particularly where Margo was concerned––was there.

It was… nice, actually. Margo talked about her work, and their mutual friends, and Quentin asked the right questions more or less, and he unwound as they made it further into the meal, fully distracted by Margo’s gossip and stories and sheer force of presence. It was especially nice to hear about the _Beast_ production going up down the street. It sounded like the sort of nightmare he was deeply relieved to have nothing to do with and almost––if it weren’t for the fact he’d kind of fucked them over, deservedly or not––made him feel sorry for Mike. It helped soothe the sting of McAllister’s empty promise too. At least she wasn’t having any better a time of things than he was.

He should have known better than to get comfortable. No sooner did the waiter lay the check on their table than Margo kicked her feet up into his lap.

“So,” she drawled, looking at him in a way that immediately set off a dozen warning bells somewhere in the back of his mind. “The shit’s up with you?”

Quentin sighed. 

He appreciated Margo’s blunt concern––really, it was kind of sweet to think that she had somehow made it into the incredibly exclusive circle of people-she-gave-a-shit-about. That didn’t mean he particularly wanted to talk about it.

It wasn’t even a big deal. He was just nursing this ridiculous disappointment, which he’d brought on himself in the first place by asking more than Eliot wanted to give, just like he’d _known_ he would. He’d get over it.

And, okay, sure, he was kind of actually like, maybe a little bit heartbroken or whatever, but it was hardly like it was his choice, and anyway. He was trying to be a good friend here and let people make their own decisions. So–– yeah.

“Nothing’s _up_ with me.” It came out sharper than he intended, which sort of defeated the purpose of refuting her point. Margo’s eyebrows rose.

“Really? Cause it looks like someone pissed in your cereal.”

“That’s not–– Jesus, Margo.”

“Uh huh. So? Talk.”

He frowned at her. “Pretty sure it’s not your business.”

“Pretty sure it is since Eliot’s been a fucking nightmare to live with ever since your little showcase on Friday.” She looked legitimately displeased about it, which Quentin believed she was, but if she was trying to elicit sympathy, she failed. Quentin’s irritation surged. He couldn’t decide if he was upset with himself for feeling this in the first place, or with Eliot for making everything so much more difficult, or with Margo for digging in where she wasn’t wanted.

It was a refreshing change from the cloudiness, except that it left him prickling and rearing for a fight, and he knew better than to pick one with Margo. So: impasse. He scowled. “Eliot isn’t-– What the fuck is he upset about? He got what he wanted.”

She looked–– calculating, sort of. Like she was piecing something together. The expression sat comfortably on her face, and he didn’t like it one bit. He folded his arms tight in front of him, defensive.

“Is that what he said?”

“What does it matter what he said?”

She gave him a look. He turned his scowl to the table. Not picking a fight with Margo, he reminded himself. He liked all his body parts right where they were.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Wow,” she said. Leaned back in her chair. “Damn.”

The waiter came and refilled their water. Margo stared at Quentin the entire time.

“Look,” said Quentin, quieter. Tired; he was tired of all of this. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Well, put on your big boy pants and deal.”

Quentin rolled his eyes and stabbed halfheartedly at the remains of his lunch. Margo’s eyes bore a hole in the top of his head he did his level best to ignore.

His level best wasn’t all that great.

“Listen,” he said around the sudden lump in his throat, which was–– embarrassing, really. He was a grown up, he could deal with this. “He can do whatever he wants. I don’t care. He’s clearly made up his mind and I’m not going to stop him from, like, following his dreams or whatever. It’d be pretty fucking hypocritical of me, after everything. So I appreciate what you’re trying to do––”

“What am I trying to do?”

He frowned at her, but she was completely unrepentant. He wished he had something in his hands, something to fiddle with, a coin or a deck of cards. “Like, patch it up or whatever. But it’s not–– nothing’s broken, okay?” That was the crux of it really, that nothing was broken, nothing was _wrong_ , he was just–– Well, it didn’t matter what he was feeling because it wasn’t about that, was it? It was about his friend, and making sure his friend was okay, even if _okay_ didn’t really include Quentin. It wasn’t like he could just turn off caring. He just needed a little space. There hadn’t been enough of that, and see where it had landed them. “We’re just doing what we want. Eliot has better things to do, and that’s fine. I’m happy for him, really.”

The strength of Margo’s stare, if anything, redoubled. He had no idea how she did it, and found it deeply unsettling. He glanced down, briefly, then back up, stubborn. “ _What_?”

She assessed him for a long minute, not saying anything, just raking him over with her sharp, discerning gaze. Quentin squirmed a little, and then tried not to, and then squirmed even more for that. Then she rolled her eyes and plucked his last fry off his plate, popping it in her mouth.

“You know he told Fogg to pick you.”

“He–– What?”

“Eliot. Told Fogg that you were the guy for the position. Program. Whatever.”

“Eliot.” Margo nodded. She seemed to almost be enjoying herself, which was exactly the sort of thing he expected from her, which was–– nice, sort of, to be in familiar territory.

“Mhm. Spent ages convincing him it was worth reviving the program for your little play. Last him he was that adamant about something it was this guy in undergrad, who–– Well, whatever. Point is, he really wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“I.” It was sort of like being dunked in cold water, except that he was perfectly dry and sitting at a diner across from Margo, who was looking at him like she couldn’t decide if she felt bad about it or she just thought the entire thing was stupid. In fairness, it could well have been both. Quentin swallowed. “I didn’t know.”

“No shit.”

He considered that for a moment. She let him, picking up the check and scanning it as he muddled through his thoughts, trying to match the Eliot who so adamantly hadn’t cared about–– about the show, or him, or–– But he had, hadn’t he? Quentin could recall with perfectly clarity the way Eliot’s face had crumpled, _I didn’t mean it like that_ , and the way he had reached out. He'd ducked away from the touch. Too much going on; he hadn't know what to do with it all. Hadn't trusted himself.

His heart knotted hot and tight in his chest, and he fought the urge to put his head down on the table. Fuck Eliot, for making it so damn hard, and fuck Margo for bringing it up, and fuck him for making a mess of everything good in his life. It would be so much easier to let it all go. He could let it go. He could be a good friend and not tie Eliot down to something he didn’t want.

Except–– Eliot had told Fogg to choose him.

The pieces didn’t fit. Or, they did, but Quentin wasn't sure he wanted to look at it. Wasn't sure what he might find if he did.

“Margo,” he said finally.

“Hm?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“The fuck do you think, dumbass?” God, what was it with people he was friends with insulting him. He scowled at her. She didn’t so much as twitch. “Go talk to him.”

He hesitated. “What if I make it worse?”

“Q,” said Margo. “I like you. I love El. I don’t know what’s up with you two, if you’re fighting or sulking or just need to get laid, but whatever it is you’re gonna deal with it, because it is _not_ my job to fix shit for you, no matter how much it sucks balls. So if you and Eliot don’t talk about whatever the _fuck_ is up with you two, I will lock you in the closet to figure it out myself. Got it?”

It was… honestly, shockingly sweet by Margo standards. He sighed. “Am I supposed to say thank you now?”

“It’d be a start.”

Quentin stared at her a moment, then laughed. He couldn’t help it; there was nothing else to do.

Margo kicked him, but she was smiling too, just a little, just enough. Quentin’s shoulders loosened.

“Sorry,” he said, and he meant for being an ass, and for fucking with something good in her life, and for laughing at her, just a bit. She shook her head.

“You can thank me by getting me tickets to the opening.”

“I’d do that anyway.”

She grinned and slid her feet out of her lap. “You’re really not half bad, Coldwater,” she said. “I get why he likes you.”

“Does he?”

“Oh, honey.”

And she signed the bill, and tucked her arm into his and they exited the restaurant to a clear, bright spring day.

* * *

On Friday morning, he stopped by the theater.

There was no real need for it. He’d be in Monday for the official transition out of the Cottage and up to the proscenium stage with the rest of the company. He went anyway.

It was a flurry of noise and movement. He might have the week off, but the designers were just getting started. Nail guns hissed and clicked as people scurried too and fro across the stage, up and down the aisles, and up on the catwalk. Halfway down the orchestra section Fen held an odd sort of court with Tick and Rafe and a small contingent of people Quentin half recognized, all of them talking around a clunky wooden table covered in papers and computers. Alice was there too, a few rows back, lit by the bright white-blue light of her laptop. Quentin slipped in to sit next to her. She didn’t even look up.

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” she said.

“I know.” She didn’t have to be here either, he refrained from mentioning.

“Did you need something?”

“No.”

They sat in a strange, companionable silence. Quentin watched a woman scale a ladder, adjust something too small to pick out from back here, and clamber down it again. High above, the shadows of electricians hung and adjusted lights up on the grid. Someone was feeding a cable through the latticework downstage left.

“I didn’t really think we’d get here,” said Quentin. Alice hummed.

“You never think we’ll get here.”

That was true. He took a deep breath, got a nose full of sawdust and old fabric from the seats. It settled him, the chaos; it was the rush of the hurricane and he was the steady center, untouched, watching it all unfold.

“I’m kinda busy, Q.”

“Do you think Eliot would come back if I asked?”

Alice continued to type, then blinked behind her glasses and looked up at him.

“Oh,” she said in faint surprise. “You’re really asking me.”

Which was sort of an answer in and of itself.

“Yeah,” he said anyway. She tilted her head.

“Do you want him to come back?”

“Yes.”

She turned back to her computer, fingers skittering across the keyboard. “Then I think he probably would.”

“Yeah, but–– I mean. Do you think he wants to.”

“He told Fogg to do the play.”

“I know.”

She looked at him and shrugged. _There you go_ , it said.

Which he knew.

“Right,” he agreed. Then, “Irene McAllister told me she might want to take the show to Broadway.”

“She’s working on Martin’s _Beast_ revival.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“Mmm. Does it matter?”

Quentin considered. “Kinda fucked that she lied.”

“I guess.”

He considered a little more. “I don’t really want to work with her.”

“Me neither.”

“You think she was our only chance?”

“Do you really want to go to Broadway, Q?”

“I mean…” Did he? He chewed the inside of his cheek. “It would be cool, I guess.”

Alice gave him another _there you go_ sort of shrug, which. Hm. Okay.

“I just–– I want to do the show.” The work, he meant. The art. He just wanted to put it up, and share it, and–– And where it went from there was a less pressing question. He’d still have it, after all. They’d still have done it, which was the part he cared about.

“Well,” said Alice, and nodded her head in the direction of the anthill chaos of the stage. _It’s definitely happening_ , her nod said. Quentin hummed.

“Thanks, Alice.”

“For?”

“Helping.”

“Mmm. Can I work now, or?”

“Yeah. Sorry. See you Monday.”

“See you.”

He said hi to Fen, and a few other people. Told them how good it all looked. They mostly nodded their thanks, and suggested without saying it explicitly he get out of the way.

He got out of the way and went to see Eliot.

* * *

Eliot was having a bad week.

It was largely his own fault, as he was well aware. This did little to improve the week, and in fact did a great deal to make everything worse. Margo’s patience for this self-flagellation completely evaporated by Wednesday, when he concocted a pathetic excuse to avoid lunch.

“Just fucking talk to him.”

“He doesn’t want to see me.”

“Seriously?”

“He told me to my face, so yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“Eliot––”

“I’m not going to make him do something he doesn’t want to do. It’s fine. He doesn’t even care.”

“Is that why you’re moping?”

“I’m not moping.”

“You look pretty fucking mopey to me.”

"I'm not going, Bambi."

"Fine. But you better sort this shit out

His contested mopey-ness was not at all helped by a series of emails from Irene about her newest project, the  _Beast_ revival that had indirectly lead to this entire mess in the first place and was also going about as well as could be expected, which was not particularly well at all.

On top of that, he had to deal with catching Todd up on his various responsibilities, and when he briefly stopped by the office early in the week to clean out his desk Fogg watched him the entire time, expression inscrutable in a way that made Eliot want to put his fist through something.

So: bad week. On and on it dragged, digging its heels in no matter what he watched, drank, and smoked to will it away. He even tried to pick someone up, chatted up a handsome stranger after his set on Thursday for all of twenty minutes before realizing his heart wasn’t in it and sulking home in a black cloud of hate directed entirely at himself. Friday he slept in as late as he could manage, waiting for Margo to leave, and then settled himself and a carton of cigarettes as the open window, smoking out into the crisp-cold air, folded up in his robe and pretending he wasn’t miserable.

He was doing a very terrible job of it, so it was almost a relief when someone knocked and he had something to direct his irritation at. He ignored them with relish, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette and fishing for a new one. Whoever was at the door knocked again. He fumbled with the lighter once, twice. It spluttered.

The knocking rang out again, more insistent.

“Nobody’s home!” he shouted, and lost his cigarette out the open window. He swore, and dropped everything, stalking over to the door and yanking it open.

“What do yo––”

Quentin stood in the doorway. Eliot’s words died on his lips.

Quentin––pink-cheeked, windswept, the most wonderful sight he’d seen––looked up at him. Took a deep breath. “Um. Hi.”

Eliot swallowed. “Hey.”

“Can I come in?”

He stepped aside wordlessly. 

Quentin looked–– tired, yes, and worn, and bright-eyed too. He stepped into the apartment and turned back to Eliot, still standing near the door. Eliot closed it like an afterthought and drank him in. His heart thudded too-fast in his chest; he was sure Q must be able to hear it. He held himself perfectly still, except for his left hand, which he folded behind him to clench and unclench where Quentin couldn’t see.

“Q,” he said. “What the fuck are you––”

“I want you to play him.”

It brought him up short. “What?”

“The Magician. I want you.”

“I’m.” Words drifted through his head but he couldn’t fit them together into a sentence. But then Quentin was talking, tripping over himself and breathless, so maybe that was just as well.

“Don’t go work for Irene McAllister,” he said. His hands kept opening and closing around the strap of his bag, and his chin jutted out, expression hard and fierce. “Don’t. Fuck her, you’re better than that, and you don’t need her anyways. And–– I want you to do this, I want you to stay. I would choose you, I _do_ choose you, okay?” He took a few shorts steps, hand carding through his hair. Eliot watched him bleed energy into the room around him, light it up. He stopped, turned his gaze back to Eliot, unerring and sure. “You get it, El. You–– you read it and you got it immediately, before I did really. You _understood_. You’re the reason I’m doing it, you’re what–– You made me see. You made me pay attention in the first place, and I–– It’s you. Eliot. It has to be you.”

And he stopped and shrugged, face open like a book. Like that was all there was to it, like he was braced for whatever blow Eliot would deliver in response, like underneath it all something in him still _believed._

Eliot had no blow to deliver. He found it difficult to speak in general, actually, around his heart in his mouth. Not impossible, but the heavy red organ just behind his teeth wanted to say things like _I’m sorry_ and _I missed you_ and _Actually I think maybe I’m in love with you_ and _I’m so afraid; how do I stop being afraid._

So it was understandable that it took him a moment to get the words out. And Quentin just stood in the middle of his apartment, staring at him, open and burning bright and brave and waiting.

Eliot gathered his thoughts as best he could. Sorted them. Took a deep breath.

“Q,” he said. He said it calm and careful, perfectly measured. He said it like he knew what he was saying, and he was saying the truth.

Henry Fogg was not wrong. He was a talented actor. Spectacular.

“Q,” he said. “You could go somewhere with this. This could be it.”

Quentin was not a good actor. Quentin put his heart out in the world and dared the world to shatter it, and when it invariably did he picked up the pieces and started again. He said: “Then you’ll be part of it.”

It was not unlike staring down a mountain. Eliot had not stared down a mountain before, but he imagined it would be like this: small and helpless, all fragile want faced with immovable, impassable stone. “I could really fuck it up for you.”

“I don’t care.”

He should, Eliot thought desperately. He should; this was his work, his beauty; this wasn't something for Eliot’s hands. “You have something good,” he insisted. “I don’t want to be the thing that ruins it.”

Quentin stared at him for a moment, a long moment of–– not contempt, exactly. His face, which often, though not always, resembled a book––much like his heart, he left it open for anyone to peer into––closed. Eliot didn’t know what he was thinking.

He could guess, but the guessing had steered him far off course, so he pressed his lips closed against a hundred tiny slip-ups and watched as Quentin crossed to sit on the couch, which dipped silently around him. Eliot drifted a little closer, afraid to move too near, afraid of what might happen if he did.

Quentin said, “Everyone this week has been telling me to talk to you.”

He winced. “Sorry about Bambi.”

“No, they’re right. They were all right, El.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, gathering his thoughts, or regathering them maybe. “I was wrong. Or, I lied, I guess. I do care, and what you do matters. It matters to me, a lot. I want you.” He stared up at Eliot, all soft eyes, all hope. Eliot was stripped bare before it. He couldn't breathe. “I really want to share this with you.”

“Q,” said Eliot. It was all he could say; he was hopeless, helpless. He should keep going, say something else, but it wasn’t–– Nothing came. He was stuck there, heart in his mouth, and he didn’t have the words. Quentin looked at him a long, long minute and sighed.

“I just–– I don’t understand.”

“I don’t know what there is to not understand.”

“Why do you keep turning down things that could make you happy?”

It hit him like a fist to the gut. A fist might have been kinder; then he would have something to blame for the way the air left him all at once, for the ringing in his ears, for the sharp and hot thing climbing his throat. It couldn’t be his heart again; that was already heavy on his tongue.

Quentin watched him wrestle with himself for some semblance of control. He braced himself forward, feet flat on the floor and elbows on his knees and hands clasped loosely together. He stared up at Eliot through the fringe of his hair, and he smiled, and it was sad.

(That hit like a punch too, like an aftershock, but he was still reeling from the first and only half felt it.)

“Listen, I’m not–– I’m not saying we have to–– If you don’t want, like, me, I get that, okay, I understand.” He didn’t, but Eliot didn’t know how to unclench his jaw enough to explain it. He stood there, mute. “Things are weird and whatever we–– I’m just saying, it doesn’t have to be that. But I want you to be part of this. I don’t want to work with whoever the fuck Fogg scrounges up. I want to work with you. Seeing you up there was like nothing I have ever seen and I–– God, Eliot.” He said it like a prayer, reverent. Eliot couldn’t meet his eyes. “Everyone should see you up there. Everyone.”

Eliot folded his arms around himself––this was to keep the delicate, raw inside bits where they belonged in his chest, so they would not go spilling out into the space between them––and said to the corner of the room, “You’re asking a lot of me.”

“Yeah,” Quentin returned, unrepentant. “I am.”

Eliot’s eyes flickered to him. Q met his gaze, unflinching.

Eliot looked away first. Quentin huffed out a quiet breath, not quite a sigh but something near enough.

“You can take the weekend if you want.” His voice was almost gentle. Eliot laughed, barking and hollow.

“Thanks.” It came out sardonic, but he meant it.

“Yeah. Just. Yeah. Okay.”

He sank in on himself as though the fight had left him all at once. He had been the mountain and now he was just the man, tired and a little grey in the face. A hundred and one declarations buzzed through Eliot, admittances and apologies and abject pleas, and if he opened his mouth they would all come flying out, a Pandora’s box of _sorrysorrysorry_.

He was not Pandora. He clenched his jaw tight and pressed his lips into a small, sharp edge. Quentin looked up at him from the couch and smiled a shadow of a smile, all aching. It was almost too much. It wasn’t enough.

“It’s good to see you.”

Eliot nodded. “You too.” It came out hoarse.

Quentin stood up and fixed the strap of his bag. He looked at Eliot again, and Eliot couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Eliot held himself narrow and tight to let him pass by.

“So. I’ll see you, then,” said Quentin, and Eliot nodded once, and then he was gone, door creaking shut behind him. Eliot held there a beat, then crossed to the couch where Quentin had just been sitting and sank down, limbs folded underneath him. The couch was still warm. He put his head in his hands.

Fuck.

He was still sitting there when Margo got home.

“Now what?” she asked, dropping grocery bags on the kitchen table and starting to put things away. Eliot picked his head up.

“Q.”

“Shocker.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “He came by––”

“Finally.”

“––and asked me to be in the play.”

“And you told him…?”

“I didn’t really tell him anything.”

“Eliot.”

“He told me to think it over.”

“Nice of him.”

“Bambi––”

“You already know everything I’m gonna say.”

He did. This, more than what she actually said, forced him to sit up straight. He was embarrassing himself, if such a feat were possible in front of Margo, who knew him just as well as he knew himself and was more willing to acknowledge the bits and pieces he wasn’t overly fond of.

“I should talk to him.”

“Yeah.”

“I love the play.”

“Yeah.”

“I might… be in love with him?”

He looked up, just to check. Margo was standing in front of the open fridge, nodding her head slowly, eyebrows raised, like he was the last one to pick up on a particularly obvious cue. She looked almost as if she were sorry about it, or could have been sorry about it if she cared to be. Eliot fell back against the couch.

“The point was not to fuck it up.”

“El,” she said, not unkindly. “He came here. To talk to you. Right?”

“He said he–– wanted me.” It sent a shiver down his spine; he could hardly believe it. Margo closed the fridge and turned to look at him.

“I think the best thing you can do not to fuck it up is figure out what you want and then _talk_ to him about it.”

He already knew what he wanted, of course. The trouble was the space between the knowing and the admitting, and then between the admitting and the pursuing. It was quite a wide gap, nearly impassable. He had no idea how he was going to cross it, but he had the vaguest understanding that Quentin would be on the other side, was already on the other side, waiting for him, half tangled. Like there was a very, very long lifeline, and if Eliot could just hold on long enough to pull himself across he wouldn’t be alone against everything; he’d have Q.

It was a thrilling thought, and a terrifying one, which made it all the harder to look at. He made himself look at it anyway. It seemed the place to start.

“You’re undoubtedly right,” he said.

“I know.”

Margo finished up in the kitchen, then sat next to him on the couch. Eliot looked over at her, fierce and unyielding and perhaps the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Let’s go upstate.” He needed to get out of the city. He needed to clear his head.

“Alright," she said, and let him lean against her without another word.

* * *

Shortly after sunset on Sunday night, the bell rang at the apartment. 

“Hi,” Eliot said, framed in the open doorway. He held a dripping umbrella out at his side, courtesy of the rain pissing down outside. He had a faint pink sunburn across the top of his nose, and looked windswept, and a little waterlogged, and a great deal uncertain. 

Quentin was unspeakably glad to see him.

“Hi,” he said. He found it somewhat difficult to string to words together. “Do you want to come in?”

“That would be great.”

Quentin stepped aside. Eliot left his umbrella in the hall and stepped smartly into the apartment. Quentin closed the door behind him.

Eliot hovered in the entry, so nervous Quentin could almost feel it coming off him. He took pity, making his way deeper into the apartment, an open invitation to stay, make himself comfortable.

God, Quentin hoped he stayed to make himself comfortable.

"Penny's out for the night," he called back over his shoulder as he went. “You want something to drink?”

Eliot's voice followed after him. “No. Mm. Yes.”

Quentin had half a bottle of red left. He set it on the coffee table with two glasses. Neither of them reached for it. Quentin sat on the couch, heart thudding. Eliot stayed standing, center stage in the living room. He pressed one long finger against his mouth.

Quentin, with a patience he didn’t feel in the slightest, waited.

“Did you mean it?” asked Eliot.

“Yes.” He didn’t ask Eliot what part he was talking about. He didn’t need to. He had meant all of it, every word.

Eliot nodded, mostly to himself. He closed his eyes a moment, as though bracing himself, and opened them. They were shockingly green in the light of the living room. Quentin forgot that, sometimes. How bright they could be.

He wet his lips, and nodded one last time, firm, and said, “Okay.”

Quentin blinked. “Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll do it.

“I–– really?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned forward. “Just like that?”

Eliot’s careful composure cracked; he laughed, high and strained. “Just like that,” he bit out.

Quentin’s stomach flipped. Something was off; he was missing something. “El––”

Eliot held out a hand. Quentin shut his mouth so fast his teeth clicked together. “Just,” he said, and heaved in a breath. “Let me get this out.”

Quentin swallowed down half a dozen questions and waited, heart clattering against his ribcage. As long as he needed. He’d wait forever, if he had to.

Rain pattered against the window. Somewhere nearby someone was playing an old jazz album, worn and warm; it crept through the cracks in the old apartment. Cars passed by outside, the low rumble of engines growing loud and disappearing again as they went, a thousand lives lived all around them.

Eliot paced, long legs eating up the space across the living room, and came to a stop. Fisted his hands at his side, and unfurled his fingers with tremendous care. He took a shaky breath.

“Q,” he said. “Quentin.” He wet his lips and shifted his weight, hip cocking out. Quentin recognized the pose. He was bracing himself.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. Eliot met his eyes. His throat bobbed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice suddenly soft. ”I–– I lied to you.”

His eyes darted away again, as quickly as they had landed. “Fuck,” he muttered towards the window. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

“You don’t have to––”

“I do,” he disagreed sharply. He squared his shoulders. “I do,” he said softer. “Just. Give me a minute.”

“Okay.”

Quentin sat back. Eliot took a deep breath. He tilted his chin up, staring at the ceiling for a long, long minute, and when he looked back his eyes shone.

“I lied to you,” he repeated slowly. “When you asked why I thought you should do this play, I lied to you. And when you asked why I don’t act anymore, I lied. And when I said it didn’t matter, I lied then too.”

Eliot paced a few more steps and stopped himself abruptly. He turned back to Quentin. There was something wild about him, frayed at the edges, like it was taking all his energy not to unravel here and now. It wasn’t that his usual poise was gone; it was that all the energy that went into it had changed, shifted, become something bigger than himself. Was he always like this underneath, cutting off the corners of himself, folding up to fit in a shape others could understand? What a waste, to hide all that. What a fucking tragedy. Quentin couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“I thought you should do this play because I fell in love with it. It’s like nothing else I’ve done, Q, ever. What you do, what you make, it’s like nothing else.” He pursed his lips. “I stopped acting because that was easier, because I was afraid I would fail and it was easier to not do it at all. And––” He stopped here a moment to take a deep breath, and met Quentin’s eyes, unflinching. Quentin sat still, pinned beneath his gaze. His heart roared in his ears.

“It does matter, Q,” he said softly. “Everything you want matters, and it’s good and worth wanting. I’m sorry I lied about that. So yes, I’ll do the show, and–– and do I want you, or us, whatever that looks like. I don’t know what, exactly, because it’s all sorts of fucked up, but–– Fuck, Q, I missed you. Whatever you want. Yes. I’m all in.”

He stared at Quentin, wide-eyed and wild, and then nodded a little, and if it was to himself or to Quentin, he couldn’t tell. His admittance hung in the air between them like a wire, electric. All Quentin had to do was reach out.

He stood.

“Whatever I want.”

Eliot’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, but his gaze was unwavering, his voice steady. “Yeah.” 

Quentin took a step forward.

“That’s… a lot to offer.”

“I know.” He swallowed; his throat bobbed. “I’m trying this new thing where I’m, hmm, honest about things that are important to me.”

Quentin took another step forward. “How’s that working for you?”

Eliot’s lips twitched. “It’s tbd.”

Quentin moved forward until they were at arm’s length. Eliot stared at him, eyes wide. Quentin met his gaze, skin prickling. “Is this okay?”

“Mhm.” Eliot nodded very fast. Quentin’s heart hammered, but his voice was sure-steady. This was important. He had to get this right.

He said, carefully, “I want you in my play, but only if that’s really something you want to do. I don’t want it to be–– to be just because you feel like you have to. I don’t want to force you into it.”

“You’re not, Q, I swear.”

Quentin nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay, um. Good, then.” He wet his lips, and took another half step forward. “I’d also, uh, really like to kiss you.”

“I think I can manage that.”

Quentin raised both hands, fingers flexing against nothing. Get this right, he had to–– 

“Eliot,” he said. “I like you, like, a lot. Like, kind of an embarrassing amount. I don’t want to kiss you and just, um, be your friend. So if that’s what you’re, like, looking for––”

“No,” Eliot assured him. His voice was hoarse. “No, I hate to admit it but I, hmm. Like you a lot too.”

“Thank God,” muttered Quentin, and he closed the space between them.

It was coming home; it was the final piece of a puzzle slotting into place. Eliot’s hand fit perfectly against the curve of his neck like it was made to lie there, and Quentin pressed up and into him, opening himself like an offering, _take whatever you need; let me give it to you_. Eliot’s lips were soft and warm, and Quentin reveled in the ease of kissing him, half familiar and heady. Eliot’s other hand settled at his hip, tugged him in as he deepened the kiss, and Quentin folded himself up against his warmth and steadiness like he could stay there forever.

When they broke apart, Eliot’s lips were kissed red and shining, and there were two spots of color high on his cheeks. _I did that_ , Quentin thought, and the thought made him push in again, one hand tangling in Eliot’s hair as he kissed him long and messy and a little desperate.

“Fuck,” he said when they pulled apart to breathe again. Eliot’s forehead pressed against his, breath tangling together in the hollow between them.

“I know,” Eliot smirked, because he was still Eliot, even with his heart on the line, and Quentin–– loved him for that, he did; it was bigger than he was and brighter too, incandescent and incredible.

“Can we–– Mm.” He paused to kiss Eliot again, or maybe it was Eliot kissing him; it was hard to tell. He got lost in it, the give and take, the ease, the feeling of light caught just under his sking and when his mind cleared enough to remember the question all he could manage was, “Bedroom?”

“Was that a proposition, Coldwater?”

It was very hard to think straight with Eliot’s thumb rubbing small circles right behind his ear. It was hard to stay upright, in fact. “Might be.”

“You’re very eloquent about it.”

“What do you want? Dearest Eliot, please fuck me into my mattress––”

“Well when you put it like that.” Eliot dipped in again, hungry, and Quentin’s world shrank down to Eliot’s mouth on his, to Eliot’s hands at his neck and at his back and under his shirt, and the smell of him, his aftershave and the musty rain-damp of his coat, which he was still wearing for some fucking reason; why hadn’t Quentin peeled him out of it yet, why weren’t they––

“Fuck,” Eliot panted. “Yeah, bedroom, great idea.”

“Told you,” muttered Quentin, and Eliot laughed and dug his fingers into his sides. Quentin yelped, wrapping his hand around Eliot's wrists to deter him, and then took full advantage of the momentary leverage to tug him along into his room where he had time only to close the door before Eliot crowded him up against it. Quentin melted against him.

“You’re so easy,” laughed Eliot when they broke apart long enough to shed a few of Eliot’s ridiculous––seriously what was he wearing––layers. It came out blindingly fond, which made Quentin blush. He wanted to protest, sort of, but he was was busy with all the tiny buttons and the way Eliot kept nipping at him, like he’d rather spend his time exploring the delicate soft skin of Quentin’s neck instead of letting Quentin put his hands all over him which–– he sort of had a point there, but also Quentin wanted to see him, touch him, so––

“Fuck you,” said Quentin. Eliot grazed a particularly sensitive spot at the hollow of his throat and it shot straight to the heat pooling in his gut. He gasped

“Fuck me yourself. Take your shirt off.”

Quentin wasted no time fumbling out of his t-shirt, and then went back to Eliot and his million fucking buttons while Eliot made himself completely useless worrying a bruise at Quentin’s neck, hands skimming his sides, and Quentin really couldn’t complain about it except that he wanted to _touch_ _him_ , dammit––

Finally, though, finally his shirt hung open so Quentin could run his hands across his chest unimpeded, map out the warm skin there, all smooth lines and dark hair. Quentin dragged him in for another bruising kiss and tried to push Eliot’s shirt off over his shoulders, but Eliot only laughed against his lips.

“Impatient.”

“Fucking yeah I am, would you _please––_ ”

“Alright, alright.”

But instead of shrugging it off he went to his knees, which–– fuck.

His hands settled at Quentin’s hips, smoothing slowly along the outside of his thighs, and Quentin couldn’t look away. He smiled, wide-mouthed, like this was something precious, wonderful, worth savoring.

“You should see your face,” Eliot said, pleased and just this side of soft, fond; it left Quentin embarrassingly breathless. He reached down, smoothing one thumb across Eliot's cheekbone, and Eliot turned his head into the touch, pressing his lips against Quentin's palm in a dry, gentle kiss.

"You good?"

"Mhm." God, he was good, he was  _so_ good. Eliot hooked his fingers in the waistband of his sweatpants and carefully worked them down, eyes fixed on Quentin's face. He shivered under the weight of his gaze, the hunger. And Eliot––

Smirked.

Quentin's head hit the door as Eliot swallowed him down, one arm braced against Quentin's hips as he tried to buck forward. His mind fizzled to static, one building wave of pleasure, until he was–– was––

“Eliot,” he bit out, a strangled warning. He was one single line of tension, trembling; every inch of him fizzed and sparked. Eliot’s hand was a brand against his hip.  “El, I’m gonna–– you have to–– stop I’m gonna––”

Eliot pulled off, nostrils flaring, mouth slick and red and distracting. “Can you go again?”

“Huh?”

He spoke with deliberate patience which was–– also really hot, how put together he was when Quentin was approximately point two seconds from shaking apart. “If you come now can you go again?”

His cock twitched. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Yes, yeah, sure, whatever you––”

Eliot didn’t wait for him to finish; he wrapped his lips around him and Quentin was coming with a long, broken cry.

He slumped against the door, boneless. Eliot wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and grinned.

“Good, then?” he asked. Quentin pushed feebly at his shoulder, catching his breath.

“Ass.”

“Mhm.”

Quentin tugged him up to kiss him, soft and sweet for a moment before Eliot's tongue brushed against his lips. Quentin opened to him happily, the taste of himself on Eliot's tongue a sharp, bright thrill.

Eliot pulled away first, and Quentin pushed up to chase after him. He laughed, tugging Quentin toward the bed. It took him a moment to trip out of his pants, and then he followed willingly, stealing tiny kisses as he went. The mattress dipped under their weight as Quentin fit himself into Eliot’s lap. Eliot shucked his shirt––finally, Jesus––and Quentin ran his hands across his shoulders, down his arms, up to cradle his face as they kissed, and kissed, and kissed, the rest of the world bleeding to a hazy what-if, like maybe they were the only two people, like maybe there was only this, only them, Quentin and Eliot and Eliot hard beneath him. Quentin's hands slipped down but Eliot tangled their fingers together, stopping him short.

“Hang on, hang on. You’re sure about this?”

Quentin pulled back, just a little, enough to look at him. His eyes were hungry and dark and a little uncertain. Quentin pulled at their interlocked fingers and pressed a kiss against his knuckles, watching Eliot’s expression go wide eyed in wonder.

Quentin had never been more sure of anything in his life.

“Yeah. Are you?”

“You have no idea.”

Quentin was pretty sure he had some idea, but his protest was lost as Eliot rolled them both over. His face hovered above Quentin, weight braced above him. He dimpled beautifully. “Okay. So, you’re good then?”

“Eliot I swear to God––”

“Yeah, you’re good.” He rose up onto his knees to unbutton his pants, wriggling out of them while Quentin watched, miles of skin appearing before his eyes. Then Eliot was hovering over him again, settling himself in the cradle between Q’s legs, cock heavy and hot at his hip and he was just, fucking, his brain was static, whiteout _._

“Tell me,” Eliot said, slightly breathless as he rolled his hips–– Quentin groaned, head tipped back–– “Tell me you have lube here, Coldwater.”

“We’re gonna have to talk about––” His breath caught. “About how I’m not some blushing virgin cause–– Jesus, fuck.”

“Lube,” Eliot insisted, grinding down.

“Drawer. Bedside table. Thing. There are condoms––”

There was a momentary confusion of limbs and cold air as Eliot rolled over onto his side to go searching for it, and Quentin just–– stared at him, all warm skin and dark hair and long lines and beautiful, just beautiful. Quentin wanted to touch him, map every inch, learn him inside and out. He heaved in a breath, half hard again already. “Might be expired––”

“It had better not be because I really want to fuck you.”

His mind cut to back to static. “I,” he said. “Yeah yep. Okay.”

Eliot rolled back towards him, propped up on one elbow, and smiled a broad, slow smile. “So, you want that too.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What exactly?”

He was blushing; he could feel it, red to the tips of his ears. Eliot’s hand drew idle spirals across his stomach which helped absolutely not at all. “You literally just said it.”

“Mm. But I want to hear you say it.”

Quentin shivered, hot and sparking. “I’d really like you to fuck me.”

Eliot grinned. “Happy to.” And he leaned in to kiss him, skin-close and burning.

Everything splintered to radiance, Eliot's sparking touch and the warmth of his skin under Quentin's wandering hands and the two-part harmony of their voices as they moved. Quentin watched Eliot's face above him, eyes fluttering and mouth wide in a smile like he couldn’t believe it, like it was all too much, and oh, Quentin wanted this, all of this, the overwhelming wonder and the joy of it; he wanted nothing but this, forever.

He came in an electric white haze and Eliot’s hips stuttered as he followed him over, his name on his lips, and collapsed down next to him. For a moment they both lay there, panting, staring up at the ceiling. Then Eliot laughed and kissed him sweetly at the corner of his mouth.

“God,” he said. “We should have done that ages ago.”

“Yeah,” Q agreed, hazy and sticky and blindingly happy, Eliot’s legs still tangled in his own. He caught his breath, tilted himself towards Eliot, pushed himself up on one elbow enough to look at him: the proud line of his profile, cheekbones and nose and brow, lips parted and red, eyes closed. He was smiling, languid and loose. Quentin loved him. “So–– You’ll stay, right? For the play, and everything?”

Eliot cracked on eye open, and his smile went firm and fond. He reached up to tuck a loose lock of Quentin’s hair behind one ear.

“And everything,” he promised.

And he did.


	6. Chapter 6

_The Magician_ opened at the House Theatre on a Thursday in late April, after nearly four months of nonstop preparation, and it was a heady thing to be there. The atmosphere was all anticipation, the thrill of a creation long in the making finally realized. Posters had been hung, the bar stocked, tickets both sold and set aside. House staff milled around in their blue and black uniforms, breast pockets all emblazoned with the bee-and-key, while the run crew double and triple checked everything, and up in their dressing rooms the actors dressed, joked, warmed up, and underwent their preparations for the night’s show, both superstitious and practical.

And Quentin Coldwater fretted. As he was prone to doing this, Eliot payed him some mind, but not too much; he was busy with his makeup, and Quentin’s steady stream of chatter was familiar and comfortable as it filled his dressing room.

“––and I swear I saw Irene McAllister out there.”

Eliot paused. “I thought she was busy with _Beast_.”

“She is. She asked Jules to work on it.”

“Seriously?”

“Mmm. Apparently Martin’s doing rewrites.”

Eliot snorted. “A little late for that, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Julia thinks so too, but it’s high profile and right up her alley, so. Though apparently the SM’s a dick.” He shrugged. “I think the play’s probably just cursed.”

“Probably,” Eliot agreed. Quentin leaned back against the counter next to him while Eliot finished with his eyeliner. “How do I look?”

“Uh,” Quentin said, and his throat bobbed a little. “Good.”

Eliot grinned, watching pink dust his cheeks. “Just good?”

“Really good.” Then he rolled his eyes. “Like you need me to tell you that.”

“I like hearing it.”

“I know you do.”

Eliot went back to the mirror, something warm settled in his chest. By all rights Quentin should be downstairs already, schmoozing with the cross section of the community that was out here tonight for their opening, but Eliot liked this better. It was still a shock, sometimes, that Q wanted him here, wanted to be here with him. Made him feel shaky, and afraid, and determined too, to step up and meet it.

Quentin’s eyes lingered on his reflection for a moment, watching him work, and then went back to pacing the exceedingly narrow space of the dressing room. Eliot forced himself back to the task at hand. He’d watch Q all day if he could, but he had a show to do.

“What if she’d picked us up instead?” Quentin asked.

“McAllister?”

“Yeah.”

Eliot paused, turned around to look at him. “Honestly,” he said with a wince, “she’s kind of awful.”

“That’s what Julia says.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I dunno, it’s just––” He trailed off.

“What?”

“To think,” said Quentin, wry, “we could have been working together anyways.”

“To think,” Eliot echoed, and it was hollow in the space between them. Quentin shook his hair out of his face with a brisk sigh.

“I like it like this more.”

“I do wear the costume best.”

“You do,” Q agreed amicably, eyes crinkling. Eliot returned to his reflection.

“Do you think she still would?”

“You mean after she’s done with that beast of a show?”

It was a terrible pun. Eliot rolled his eyes, so Quentin would know how terrible it was. Q just shrugged, eyes twinkling, sparing a moment to be pleased with himself.

Eliot liked him so _fucking_ much. It was embarrassing.

“I don’t know,” he decided. “I’m not sure I’d want her to.”

“Could be a chance to go to Broadway.”

“Yeah, I guess. If it happens it happens.” Q was quiet for a moment. “I–– I’d rather do it like this anyways. With you, and everyone.”

Eliot caught his eyes in the mirror, and smiled, a faint little thing just for him. There was an apology folded up somewhere in there. Quentin returned it, and almost immediately went back to pacing, nervous energy rolling off him in eddying waves. Eliot finished with his makeup and stood, catching him by the shoulders as he approached. Quentin rocked in his grip a little, leaning into him.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet.”

“Sorry. Nervous.” He stilled as Eliot fixed his crooked bowtie.

“It’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

“We’ve done the work.”

“I know.”

“Sit back and enjoy your night, Coldwater.”

“Our night,” Q corrected. Then, “You’re sure it’s not too late to skip it?”

“It’s your opening. And mine, and I would be a little disappointed if my boyfriend bailed on me now.”

“I guess that would be a dick move.” He tugged on his cufflinks, not meeting Eliot’s eyes. Eliot frowned down at him.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”

“Honestly? I’m freaking out.” Quentin laughed, brittle and raw. “But I want this to work, so I’m––” He shook his head, hand out at his side, and shrugged. “Here I am.”

Eliot swallowed around the lump in his throat, and when he reached out Q let him tug him in close. He fit nicely just beneath Eliot’s chin, and Eliot took great care not to rumple his suit jacket between them.

“Has anyone ever told you how brave you are?” It was easier to ask it to the top of Quentin’s head than to his face. Q laughed against him, a little thickly. “I mean it. So fucking brave.” And he punctuated it with a kiss against Q’s temple. Q pulled back some to look at him.

“Thank you,” he said, horribly open. Eliot stared down at him.

“For what?”

“Staying.”

“Well, the company is just so good––”

“El.”

Eliot swallowed, and made himself meet Quentin’s soft, dark eyes. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, lacing their fingers together. “I’m right here.”

Quentin smiled, shaky and bright, and tilted his chin up in a question, and what was Eliot supposed to do but kiss him?

“Break a leg,” he said when they pulled apart. “I’ll see you after the show. I love you.”

He said it so easily Eliot almost missed it. Then the words filtered through and Eliot lit up inside, a confusing flare of _light-hope-heat-love_ crashing over him. He stared down at Q, rooted, mouth open and soundless. Q smiled ear to ear, beaming bright, eyes crinkling, like he knew what he had done and what he had said and what it was doing to Eliot right his very moment, part mischief and part glowing honesty, and Eliot wanted to reach down and reel him in and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

“We’re at half hour!” called Fen out in the hallway, and Eliot swore. Quentin laughed.

“Get out of here,” Eliot said, but he was grinning too, brilliant and beaming, and Quentin pushed up to kiss him again, still laughing, and ducked out of his dressing room, leaving behind the sound of his laugh and the taste of his lips and the glow of his love, his _love_. 

Eliot took it all and tucked it into his heart, where it shone spotlight-hot and electrifying, and finished getting ready.

* * *

There was a spring to his step as Quentin weaved his way around people and set pieces and an incredible amount of thick black cabling on his way to the lobby. He bumped into Fen on her headset long enough to offer her a hasty “break a leg” and an over-bright smile, and then he slipped out into the lobby, which was just as chaotic as everywhere else in the House.

Not even the press of the crowd could dampen his mood. He made a slow circle around the room, shaking hands, saying hello as people filtered in from the street and through to the house. Alice and Margo perched at one of the high, round tables by the bar, and Kady, Penny and Julia were tucked away against one wall, clearly regaling James with some mildly horrifying anecdote if James' face was anything to go by. Julia caught his eye and waved briefly as he passed. He returned it, and went searching for his dad.

Ted Coldwater was speaking with Misha Mayakovsky, which was a combination that did, in fact, stop him dead in his tracks and send a shiver down his spine. He considered, briefly, turning around and going to rescue James from Julia’s people, but they both looked up before he could move. Ted smiled; Mayakovsky didn’t frown, which was about the same. Quentin, with no way out, joined them.

“Hey, Curly Q,” said Ted. Mayakovsky grunted something that could charitably be called a greeting.

“Hey,” Quentin returned carefully. “How are you?”

“I’m good.” He looked it too, cheerful and energetic, on an upswing. They were waiting for results, but the word _remission_ had been thrown around at the last doctor’s visit, and that did almost as much for raising spirits as a confirmation. Ted nodded to Mayakovsky next to him. “Misha here was just talking to me about your process. Didn’t realize how much went into it all.”

“It’s a lot,” Quentin agreed, eyeing Mayakovsky, who no one had ever, to his knowledge, called by his first name. It was somewhat jarring; Quentin often forgot he had one. “We’ve had an incredible team, though.”

“Everyone has worked very hard,” Mayakovsky agreed, only a little stilted. “But it would not have been possible without such a good text.”

Quentin blinked at him, openly shocked. Mayakovsky scowled back. _Don’t make this weird_ , said his expression, which was more along the lines of what Quentin expected. He cleared his throat a little.

“Well, we had a good director, so––”

“Sounds like you two make quite the duo,” Ted said, smiling at both, oblivious. Then, “Oh, is that Julia? I think I’ll just…”

“I’ll be right there,” Quentin said, and his dad wandered off. He looked sidelong at Mayakovsky. Mayakovsky shrugged, a whole body thing that nearly upset the drink in his hand.

“Yes, alright. It is a good play. You did good work. Hard work. I made it better, of course.”

“Of course,” Quentin echoed, feeling remarkably charitable and even––maybe it was just the glow of the night––fond of the director. “Thank you.”

“Yes, yes. Go away now. I am drinking.”

Quentin went away, shaking his head. There were more hands to shake, more smiles. Henry Fogg stopped him briefly with perfunctory congratulations and waved off Quentin’s gratitude for the opportunity with a blunt, “Yes, yes, alright. It was, despite everything, worth it.”

Which was one of the nicer things Henry Fogg had said to him. Everyone, apparently, was in a good mood tonight.

Well, not quite everyone.

“Quentin!”

Irene McAllister appeared before him, mouth smiling and eyes unpleasantly sharp. She looked more haggard than she had the last time he saw her, a little sleepless, and irritated around the edges. This mostly served only to make her look more imposing, but Quentin, wrapped up in the mood of the night, didn’t entirely care.

“Irene,” he said. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Quentin,” she repeated, reproachful. “You didn’t call me.”

“No,” Quentin agreed. “I do appreciate your offer, but I understand you have your hands full with Martin Chatwin’s show.”

Her expression flickered, irritation shining through before she smoothed it down. A mild, rather petty satisfaction flashed through Quentin

“It’s certainly grown far beyond what we could have expected––”

“I wish you the best of luck,” he said. He did, mostly. Sort of. He was just happy not to touch that one with a ten foot pole.

“That’s very kind of you.”

She didn’t sound like she found it particularly kind. Quentin smiled blandly. Above them, lights flickered.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I should get to my seat. I hope you’ll enjoy the show.”

“Thank you,” she returned, because what else was there to do, and he left her drifting as the remaining crowd filtered through the doors and into the house.

Julia and his father were already at their seats by the time he arrived, deep in conversation. Quentin squeezed in between them, chair squeaking under him. His heart thrummed and his palms were damp and he was the thrilling sort of nervous, bright and electric and ready. Julia and Ted shared a look.

“You good?” Julia asked, and he grinned.

“Yeah,” he said, and the house lights went down, and a hush fell, and the play began.

Quentin knew there was magic to the theater. He’d known it since he was a boy and his father took him to a show about a faraway world of beasts and kings. The theatre transformed men and women into tragic heroes and sympathetic villains. Strangers became familiar as friends. The play of noise and light created rich other worlds from nothing more than wood and smoke and paint. Impossible lands came to life right in front of his eyes, right in the very same room where he sat. What was that if not magic, the awe and beauty of creation.

This was magic too, to sit in the midst of the audience and watch his play and all its pieces come together, each hush and laugh and gasp echoing around him, magnified a hundredfold. It was magic to feel like this, heart glowing and fully and a riot of _happyhappyhappy_ , joy tolling like a bell.

It carried him through the show, from the hush at the top of act one to the perfect glowing doorway at the end of act five, when the Magician––who was not Eliot, not then, or rather Eliot disappeared into the Magician until they were one and the same, had always been the same; a man building a world for himself step by difficult step, reaching for something unknown and marvelous just across the threshold, finding the courage to reach out and grab it––fixed his coat, and smiled, and stepped through into a waiting world.

And the stage went dark.

Quentin thought, in that moment of perfect darkness, perfect stillness, perfect wonder, that this was why he did it. This was worth every struggle and heartache. This he would do again and again and again, no matter what, for as long as he could. This was the power of his belief.

And then the world rushed in again, and he laughed.

Amidst the roar of the applause and the curtain call, Julia hugged him, tight and fierce, and he was aware that she was crying, getting his jacket damp, but he didn’t care.

“Congratulations,” she was saying, over and over again. “Congratulations, Q.”

Then she passed him off to his father, who hugged him strong and tight and exactly like he always did, and Quentin laughed against his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Ted Coldwater.

“Me neither,” said Quentin. “I’m so glad you’re here, Dad. I’m so glad you made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He shook his head, and then held Quentin by his hands and grinned like a child discovering magic. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The crowd roared again, and Eliot was on stage and they were all on their feet for him, for them. Even from here Quentin could see him beaming. Margo wolf whistled loud enough to pierce the din, and Quentin watched him laugh, sound lost to the crowd. He held his hands out and the cast bowed as one, and Quentin thought, _this is my play, I did this, I made this_ , and tears welled in his eyes. His own magical world brought to glorious life.

He was, suddenly, so excited about everything. About this show, about the next, about whatever came after it. It was an alien thing, and wonderful. He could hardly stand it. He could hardly believe it. He couldn’t bear to let go.

The stage cleared. The house lights filtered on. Quentin was aware, distantly, that he was crying. Julia took his hand.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He was okay. He was better than okay, he was the most okay he had ever been. He laughed. “I can’t believe we did it.”

“Quentin!” Margo materialized, Alice at her side, and then they were passing each other around; Margo was hugging him and laughing, makeup a little smudged, and he hugged Alice so tight her feet came off the floor while she laughed in his ear, and he said, “Thank you thank you thank you,” against her hair. James was there, and Kady, and even Penny clapped him on the back, eyes smiling, and told him, “Not bad, nerd.”

They drifted together toward the lobby, where there was champagne and hors d'oeuvres and laughter and dozens upon dozens of people to speak with, but Quentin lingered near the door.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he promised. There was someone he had to see first.

“Okay,” hummed Margo, and Julia tucked his hair behind his ear, and they went on without him. Quentin stood in the slowly-emptying house and breathed it all in, the acrid smell of the smoke machine and the sawdust smell of wood-and-paint and the musty smell of theatre seats and carpeting. He watched Henry Fogg shake hands heartily with Misha Mayakovsky as they herded each other towards the exit, and strangers chatter with their heads close together, and––

Eliza approach him. He hadn’t even know she was coming. Last he’d heard she was back in England.

“Wonderful show,” she said.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” he returned. “You helped a lot.”

“All part of the job.” She wore her amber hair up in a bun, and looked even more familiar than usual. “I rather thought I might offer something more.”

“Oh?”

“I know the McAllisters approached you about continuing with the production once the run here ends.”

“How did you––?”

“I’m afraid that my brother’s revival might have thrown a wrench into that a bit.”

And like that, it clicked. “You’re Jane Chatwin.”

She looked pleased. “Guilty as charged.”

Another time he would have been shocked, or speechless, but tonight was a golden streak of ease and understanding, and he was only amused, and a little curious. “What’s with the… you know.”

“Why Eliza?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not supposed to consult with Brakebills. Bad blood after Martin left, and enough red tape to strangle a bear. You know how it is. But I enjoy it so much more, and Martin’s always such a stickler. So I’m just Eliza, freelance contractor.”

It made perfect sense. It made no sense at all. Right now, Quentin didn’t care. “Huh.”

“Now,” she said. “As I said. I know McAllister mentioned picking up the show, but I rather thought I might.”

“What happened to not––”

“As long as it isn’t a Brakebills production.” She smiled. “Aren’t loopholes wonderful things?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” she said. “If you need to take some time––”

“No,” said Quentin. “No, I don’t need to think it over. I’d love to.”

“Are you sure? It would be a long time to spend with the show. And would likely start with a stint in Vancouver.”

“That’s alright,” laughed Quentin. “I mean. It depends on the company, but. I’d like to do that.”

Eliza––Jane––looked at him for a long minute, and nodded once, firm. “Right. Well. I’m sure the details will come in time. For now, you should enjoy your opening night. Congratulations, Quentin.”

“Thank you,” he said again, and moved aside so she could pass him by. He stared out at the nearly empty house, then crossed the whole of it to slip through one of the side doors that led backstage.

He saw Fen first, still in her headset, and she laughed when she saw him, swallowing him in a hug he returned in kind.

“Good show,” he said. “Where’s––”

“Still upstairs,” she said. “I’ll see you out there.”

“Thanks, Fen. For everything, really.”

She beamed.

He took the stairs two at a time and emerged out into an empty hallway, the others already downstairs enjoying the celebration. 

Or–– nearly empty. There at the far end, Eliot was stepping out of his dressing room, freshly dressed in his suit, hair still damp and curling at his temples. He paused when he saw Quentin, and Quentin watched his mouth form his name, and then they were both moving towards each other.

They collided halfway in a tangle of laughter and limbs until Quentin managed to get a fistful of Eliot’s nice vest and pulled him down to kiss him soundly. Eliot pulled away laughing.

“That good, hmm?”

“Holy shit, Eliot.”

“Mmm. Well said.”

Quentin kissed him again, Eliot’s lips smiling against his.

“I was thinking.”

“Were you?”

“We should write a musical.”

“Should we?”

“Mhm.” The agreement was lost in another swift kiss.

“I don’t know anything about music,” Quentin pointed out.

“Lucky for you, I do.”

“We’ll talk about it.”

“Too soon?”

“We may be going to Vancouver.”

Eliot pulled back. “Why?”

“Jane Chatwin wants to take us to Broadway.”

“Jane Chatwin?”

“Yeah.”

“Via _Vancouver_?”

“The details are kinda TBD.”

“This sounds like one of your nerd fantasies.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Whatever does it for you. No judgement.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, but Eliot kissed him again, which made it better. He could lose himself in this without a second thought, spend the night in a celebration all their own.

But they had people waiting. He pulled away, Eliot’s forehead pressed against his.

“Much as I would like to do this for the rest of the night,” he said, and Eliot sighed.

“I know, I know.” He pulled back, properly, and fixed Quentin’s tie, long clever fingers tugging it straight and neat. Quentin let him fuss.

“Better?”

“Much.” He smoothed down the front of his vest and rolled his shoulders back, suddenly all ease. Took a deep breath. Held out one arm. “Shall we?”

Quentin laughed and took it, and they squeezed down the stairs and through the warren of backstage halls and spaces to the door that led out to the lobby, where the noise of the crowd was a thrumming roar that he could feel in his teeth.

Eliot stopped short, suddenly, and Quentin stopped with him. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” said Eliot. He closed his eyes, settling his shoulders. Took a breath, then another.

“Hey,” Quentin said, and held Eliot’s face in his hands. Eliot opened his eyes, and there was–– love; it was just love. Love laced through with determination, with dedication, with such fucking bravery it turned Quentin’s stomach upside down, made him want to be worth it, be worthy of it.

Eliot smiled at him, soft and open and beautiful, and Quentin thought, _I want to feel like this always; I never want it to end._

“Q?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you too.”

In the frame of the doorway, then, with the crowd just on the other side––the crowd that was here for him, for them; the crowd that had some to see his show and Eliot in it, that hummed and thrummed and roared in the lobby of the theatre where the marquee said _The Magician_ , where it was _A play by Quentin Coldwater_ , the crowd of critics and producers and movers and shakers and family and friends who had come to _see his work_ ––in the lee of the doorway, Quentin stood up on his toes to kiss Eliot, slow and sweet.

“I know,” he said when he pulled back. He took Eliot’s hand and promised: “I know.”

And he smiled like the sun, and opened the door, and they stepped through together.

 

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me on [tumblr](http://impossibletruths.tumblr.com/)


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